Tag: Love

Remembering Who You Are

The gap between this garden post and my last spans 15 months of a global era charged with all the circumstances that make my kumbaya soul weep. It’s not inflation, the economy, the pandemic, the immigration crisis, or politics. No. In all things, it’s the pervasive anger, contempt, divisiveness, unwillingness to listen or compromise, and the refusal to forgive.

And so it was a humbling experience recently to find myself in a circumstance that stirred in me the kind of blistering anger and stubborn unforgiveness that I find bewildering in others.

Early on in the said situation, I admitted my shortcoming, explained myself, and apologized. In my mind, it was a relatively minor infraction; poorly chosen words said in the heat of a moment. I fully expected to get past it quickly, especially during the holidays. The other party didn’t see it that way, didn’t accept my apology, and was particularly harsh about it on Christmas Eve. Everyone else in the room pretended not to notice.

Forgiveness is something I value highly and always try to give freely. To have it withheld from me was hurtful. As often happens, hurt turns to anger. I retreated, allowed my resentment to grow, and vowed never to forgive the unforgiver. I stewed about it. I seethed. I allowed it to invade most of my thoughts for the next few days.

Then, on the Monday after Christmas, I received a coincidental reminder from a friend about not letting the heartless world rob you of your joy. It was a quote by writer Kurt Vonnegut that my friend just happened to post on social media. It said in part, “Do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness.”

Reading that, I realized I had relinquished my power over my inner happiness to someone else. Regardless of how that someone else chose to handle the situation, I had the ability to regain my own peace of mind. The ice that had so quickly formed around my heart began to melt.

“Feeling angry and unforgiving may be a comfortable state of being for someone else, but it’s definitely not for me. This is not who I am,” I said to myself and later to my husband who agreed 100 percent.

I began to look around me for more reminders of who I am. That same day I asked my husband to stop the car so I could take a picture of snowy, cloud-shrouded mountains that looked like they belonged in a fantasy film. The next day I marveled over a colorful sunset between winter storms. The next I found unexpected inspiration in some of the messages (two borrowed from poet Ralph Waldo Emerson) on the front of the Christmas cards taped to our coat closet.

Believe in the magic.

Every hour and season yields its tribute of delight.

Every moment of the year has its own beauty.

Peace and Love.

More wonder, more twinkle, more merry, more joy.

And at the top of the display, a Thanksgiving card that said only, “#blessed.”

The most important reminder, though, were my roses. No. There is nothing blooming in the high desert in the dead of winter. Yet, when I went out on the front porch on New Year’s Day to refill the water bowl we keep for stray cats, I couldn’t help but notice pops of red on the other side of the railing.

There, still clinging to the bramble bush, were several spent roses. The backdrop of snow through tangled canes framed them in a way that reminded me of the Bette Midler song, The Rose. Most people who know the lyrics remember the last lines about the progression of winter, snow, sun, spring, and the rose. But there’s another line elsewhere in the song that means more, especially today.

“I say love, it is a flower, and you, its only seed.”

As this new year begins, I find that I’m oddly grateful for the humbling experience with anger and forgiveness (or lack thereof). I needed a reminder about the power of choosing how we’re going to feel, how we react to forces beyond our control, and how every one of us has the power to plant seeds of love.

We – you and me – are the only soldiers capable of combatting the animosity that is spreading ever wider in our world, our country, our communities, and sometimes in our own social circles. Take my hand and let us skip happily into 2022 with the expectation that we can make a difference by freely scattering seeds of all the goodness that lies within each of us. In the simple words of the holiday cards displayed on our coat closet …

Magic, delight, beauty, peace, love, wonder, twinkle, merry, joy.

With these seeds, we are indeed #blessed.

Rose Rules

If you’re looking for the key to a fulfilling life, look no further than the garden.

It’s an intimate place, the garden. Personal. Cloistered. Out there, it’s just you and Mother Earth and the Good Lord working hand-in-hand to create your vision. Maybe it’s an impressive plot of homegrown vegetables, a bed of flowers filled with fragrance and color, or an apartment balcony garnished with potted plants. Whatever it may be, the garden is the friend that will tell you what you truly need to know.

My garden – the Garden of the Rocks and Roses in the high desert of Nevada – reminds me every day of the values that infuse my life with meaning. You’ve probably seen similar thoughts elsewhere. So have I. Pop culture is chock full of ready-made lists and generic advice. The difference is that I have a deep and abiding trust that these are my truths, born in the early morning chores and quiet contemplation that comprise my life as a rose whisperer.

* * *

Share Love. Every morning I gaze at my garden, or stroll through it, or putter in it. I bathe myself in the vibrance of the colors, the shape of the delicate petals, and the old world fragrance. Most days I’m so filled with love that I literally can’t hold it all. Gladly, I give the surplus back through devoted caretaking, kind words, and heartfelt prayers. The circular process reminds me of the quote on a ceramic plaque a dear friend gave me years ago. “Love. What goes around comes around.” It surely does.

Show Gratitude. This isn’t only about counting your blessings. It’s about feeling thankful for everything – the good, the bad, the in-between. Sometimes in the spring, when all the rosebushes are heavy with blossoms, I can’t help but raise my hands skyward in praise. It’s easy to be thankful then. It’s not as easy when pesky aphids or a stubborn fungus threaten all that beauty. In those moments, my commitment to gratitude is tested. More often than not, I come to a place where I’m genuinely grateful for the experience. From hardship comes knowledge and strength, and that better prepares me to handle or perhaps even prevent the next challenge. As for the in-between, when the roses are sleeping through the frigid winter, I’m grateful for the rest and for the joy of anticipating another glorious spring.

Have Hope. When I’m on my hands and knees mulching or turning fertilizer in the soil, I’m doing more than gardening. I’m practicing the art of hope. What is planting and tending a garden if it is not hope? Hope that the objects of your affection will survive and grow. Hope that they will eventually yield your heart’s desire. Hope that you are actually the wise gardener you aspire to be. Along with hope come faith, optimism, and cheer. You can’t really have one without the others. At least in my garden you can’t.

Listen. Although I talk to my roses, I don’t expect them to carry on a conversation. But I listen nevertheless. They tell me what’s happening in their own language. Lush, green foliage and abundant, colorful blooms speak of health and vibrance. Withered leaves and a disappointing flush send up a red flag that there are problems to resolve. Sometimes I don’t know the resolution. That’s when I seek out those with more experience and listen to their wisdom. Listening and speaking may be partners in good communication but, without a doubt, listening is the better investment.

Be Consistent. Gardening isn’t a sporadic hobby. Even when I don’t much feel like pruning or mulching or fertilizing, the work still has to be done. Gardens can go to pot, and the quickest route is neglect. A day off now and then won’t make a big difference. Take a month or a season off, and you’re buying trouble. Trust me. I’ve done that. Catch-up was more work than I ever bargained for. Consistency, it turns out, is the gold standard.

Persist. When consistency alone doesn’t produce the desired result, persistence is the next best tool in the box. I have a pair of climbing roses that taught me that lesson. After a particularly brutal winter, the canes were black with a malady called, appropriately, winter kill. When I talked to the local nursery, they were surprised I had even tried growing those particular roses in the dry desert since they are native to perpetually wet climates. The verdict was to dig them up and plant something else. I cut back the dead canes, but the crowns and the roots wouldn’t budge from the ground. A few months after I gave up trying, I noticed new shoots springing from those crowns. The roses came back with fiery resolve and the next spring produced more tiny, yellow roses than I had ever seen.

Respect. In the garden, I believe that every bush has an equal right to water, sun, and my attention. It doesn’t matter whether it’s a small, spindly bush that produces a handful of roses a year or a large, resplendent one that produces dozens of blooms throughout the spring and summer. They are all deserving of my love and care. Likewise, I believe that every other living thing in the garden deserves respect. Generally I finish my morning chores before the bees come out but, if they start showing up while I’m still puttering, I acknowledge that my turn is over and give them the space. My husband feels the same. He is reluctant to finish off our paver patio for fear he will trap one of our many resident lizards in the hidey holes they’ve dug in his work area. It may seem amusing, even ridiculous to some, but the past few days both of us have waited patiently in our deck chairs while white-tailed rabbits chomped on apples that have fallen from our trees. We are no more important than the bees, lizards, bunnies, and other wildlife in our garden. Every life is God-given. Every life matters. Moreover, from the wildlife’s perspective, the garden isn’t ours anyway. It’s theirs.

Give Back. For all intents and purposes, you can re-read “Share Love” and understand the meaning of “Give Back.” Every bit of care I give to my garden comes back to me in spades. The same is true when I take the time to share photographs of my roses on social media. There are people – perhaps not many but some – who tell me time and again that my posts bring cheer to their day. Especially in these turbulent times, when our lives are restricted and our futures uncertain, making someone smile is not such a small thing.

* * *

I may have gleaned these insights from my garden, but it should be no surprise that values like these easily apply to every aspect of life. No matter what hat I may be wearing at any given moment, I can fall back on my personal values to guide me. They are, in fact, instrumental to me as a writer, amateur photographer, and family historian. They help me daily to be the best wife, mother, grandmother, sister, aunt, and friend that I can be. Perhaps most importantly, they lead me as a citizen of this amazing planet.

I am shamelessly proud of my garden and endlessly grateful for the role it plays in my life. It’s not just a spot in the yard where I grow roses. It’s one of the best friends I’ve ever had.

Love Is Contagious, Too

In the garden, caution is sometimes the only strategy to keep your rose bushes healthy.

The best example involves pruning. You don’t prune one rose bush and then move on to the next without sanitizing your shears. If you do, a virus that has covertly infected one bush is almost sure to spread through the entire garden. Certain viruses like witches broom (officially known as rose rosette) are so insidious that removing diseased bushes is considered the only recourse.

Knowing this, when health and government authorities told us all to repeatedly wash our hands, diligently sanitize surfaces, and stay home as much as possible to interrupt the spread of the corona virus, I wasn’t inclined to argue. Self-quarantine of individuals who’ve contracted the disease, but aren’t sick enough to be hospitalized, also made sense.

But what does this mean once you’re actually surrounded by the same four walls and (if you’re lucky to have housemates) the same faces day after day?

Despite what the calendar says, spring has not arrived in the high desert of Northern Nevada so, even on mild days, there isn’t a great deal of work to do in the garden. Saturday night dinner with the kids and grandkids is not an option. Television loses its luster when there is almost a constant stream of bad news and you’ve watched all the new episodes of programs you like.

So here’s what we’re doing in our household.

Every day we try to limit our daily intake of the bad news. Instead, my husband and I check in with family and friends via telephone calls, texts, email, and Facebook. Not only does that keep things in perspective, it helps us feel less isolated from the people we love. We can’t physically go through this crisis together, but we can go through it together emotionally.

Every day we spend time working on projects that normally we only wish we had time to do. For me, that means I’m suddenly making rapid progress on the historical novel I started two years ago. Rewrites I thought would take months are taking days or weeks instead. And what a joy it is that someone who regularly critiques my work is now my partner in isolation and can make suggestions in real time.

Most importantly, every day I try to think of something positive I can do for someone else. Admittedly, there’s not a lot. The last time we went to the grocery store I made a point of cheerfully greeting everyone I saw (from a socially safe distance, of course). In addition, I resisted the urge to buy more than we really needed so other shoppers could buy what they needed, too. A few days ago, I checked on our older-than-us neighbors and made sure they had our telephone number if they should need help. Yesterday, I left a “thank you” sign on the door for the UPS driver who continues to make essential deliveries while the world goes crazy around him.

Perhaps as we get deeper into the pandemic, it will become more challenging to tolerate isolation, be productive, and stay positive. But I’m personally going to try with all my heart and soul to persist. I invite you to join me in that mission. Collectively, let’s do everything we can to interrupt the spread of the corona virus and, at the same time, make sure patience, kindness, and love spread unchecked all over the world.

It’s More Fun to Give

In Giving We ReceiveEvery spring I’m blessed with the natural beauty of colorful roses, flowering trees, and fragrant honeysuckle. The greening and budding and general rebirth across our backyard is like a gift that I get to open again and again.

Now, as the gift-giving holidays surround us, I want to let you in on a little secret. I didn’t originally throw myself into landscaping the yard to please myself. I did it for my mother.

My mother lived with me the last 12 years of her life. It wasn’t because she loved the desert. She was drawn to the lush valleys, forests and beaches of the West Coast. The vast expanse of sand and sagebrush in Nevada was her final destination only because I was here and could offer the support she needed.

As years passed and she became increasingly homebound, I tried my best to grow lovely things for her to gaze at from the comfort of her recliner. When we moved to our current house and the “picture” window proved painfully small, I had it replaced with one four times the size so she could more easily see the wisteria climb up the trellises and watch the yellow finches dangle from feed socks.

I shouldn’t be surprised that the gift I created for her has become, instead, a gift for me. Countless poets, spiritualists, and deep thinkers have long strived for the perfect words to remind us that what we give eventually circles back to us.

One of my grandsons said it well. During our annual holiday shopping excursion, he and his brother were about to go over-budget on gifts for their parents. I pointed out that it would leave little from their Christmas piggy banks for themselves. “It’s more fun to give,” the younger of the two said and handed another gift to the checker.

It’s not difficult to understand why this is so. Seeing someone happy, and knowing we are responsible, is like injecting pure sunshine straight into our own hearts.

It would be easy to turn today’s musings into a tired reminder to help the less fortunate this holiday season. Fulfill a wish from an angel tree. Donate a bag of groceries to the local food pantry. Drop some change in the bell ringer’s pot.

By all means, do those things. But be aware that arm’s-length gestures won’t produce the kind of inner sunshine that makes you eager to give tomorrow and the next day and the next.

For a lasting high, I suggest planting roses. No, not the kind that grow in your backyard. The kind my mother always said popped up in your garden in Heaven whenever you spread the seeds of love. Face-to-face, heart-to-heart, give the most precious gift of all to someone who is hurting or lonely or lost. Give love. Give it generously. Your piggy bank can never run out because every measure of love you share will circle back to you in spades. Take it from my grandson, it will be fun.