Sometimes, all these years later, I forget what I know and begin to think…or worse, to talk.  This is seldom a good thing, this move from my heart to my head, especially it seems when my mouth intercedes. Rationality can never completely wrap itself around experience, and language can’t begin to express encounter. Thank god for the garden.


The garden is. Without need for explanation. Without words. Without violation or fear, right or wrong, heartache or headache. Though I suppose I know a few folks for whom this isn’t entirely true, it is for me a place to forget what I think and to simply know.


Take the way Beauty and Dirt hold hands, for instance, the way they need each other. Or the way Beauty lies down at the end of the day and lets itself be surrounded by the dark, drinking in its moisture-laden breath. The way my hands start out in gloves but lose themselves along the way to dirt’s appeal. The way I try again and earth forgives my foolishness. The way my heart delights in morning’s find.


The way.


Ideas of God get tripped up by the tongue. Perhaps it would be best if we followed suit of early authors of the divine when instinct advised them to describe It as a garden. I am in love with God the way I am with the garden– fearlessly, foolishly, forgivingly. I don’t care if none of it makes sense, if the phlox keeps coming up each year beneath the goldenrod though I dig it out each year, if sometimes every single mountain laurel dies and the bluebirds move to the neighbor’s box, I just want to lie down in it and breathe.


And you? who read this? I don’t care what you think. Tell me what you know!

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