I passed by two landscapers, huddled over cold earth, mesh bag in hand, planting bulbs that will lay silent all this cold winter long. And gardeners know that the silence and the stillness hold value, and that roots must grow deep, and germinating has no appearance of glory at all.
And I watch and listen, over coffee and by phone, as my friend waits in silence – not actual silence – for life is full, and distractions are anything but quiet, but in the silence for the one voice she longs to hear, the one that says, this is the way, walk in it. And I doubt she feels the roots deepening, or the glory in the everyday putting one foot in front of the other. But to me, where I sit, I can imagine crocuses, now but a dream, and smell the bouquets, gathered from a garden of plenty. But we don’t talk of this, because sometimes it doesn’t help to know it will come someday. We talk of dirt and grubs, and look for beauty in the present, and let hope grow quiet.
Linking up again, this week, with Lisa-Jo and the sweet community at Gypsy Mama. Join us, writing for just five minutes, unrehearsed & unedited, or enjoy reading other’s responses to the prompt “growing.”