Memorial Day Weekend, 2017.
Mother's Day is just past, and with it, my mother's funeral. Father's Day is not here yet, but Memorial Day is. Dad was a veteran of World War II, and a believer in letting go of what one can't change. Today, I honor him by sharing that belief, and by not allowing those without a shred of common sense to push me into doing something I cannot do without causing more harm. I don't forget my ancestors. I do remember that each and every one of them had hard choices, once upon a time. The need to make decisions is on me, even now. Some will turn out well, and others, due to variables beyond my control and a certain inevitable measure of misinformation, will not. That, my dears, is life.
It's said that planting a garden is an act of positive thought: one plans to harvest said garden. We have, against all indicators for luck, planted a garden. Again. I say, planting a garden is an occupation for the stubborn.
I am stubborn.
I am also a functional pacifist... of the sort who has limits. Every day is a gift, and every day is a struggle for peace. I watch my neighbors, in this political atmosphere the U.S. of A. exists in, taking sides and taking up arms. One group wants the others to do the impossible. Those already struggling under the weight of the impossible look at the judgemental lot and finger sharp objects with an eye to application. My disgust and rage are fanned to white hot. I must remind myself of my pacifism, I must tend to the mother I have left, a scrap of fertile, willing earth filled with tender life, life I must accept the guilt for consuming, in time. Perspective always changes views.
A garden is a gift, being a microcosm of life itself. It's not the I Ching or Tarot, yet every living thing has something to teach, if we have but the wits to learn from them. Sometimes those lessons are pure wisdom.
From my Facebook account, posted yesterday:
A day of introspection: I've been thinking of all the sacrifices made in the name of good and joi de vivre.
Today I walked outside with my simple, homemade poplar walking cane, traded it for my trusty hoe, and planted a few vegetables and fruits in our very compact garden. Back to tending the first mother, the earth that feeds us all. I came inside, sat down, and from the corner of my eye saw motion. Something dark against my light gray t-shirt. Fearing a tick, I examined the visitor.
It was a tiny inchworm, "measuring off a new shirt" for me. ;) The creature was safely released outside, to live its natural life as earth intended.
Each day is a gift. In the end, the earth takes us back into its cradle, where we might return in the guise of any living thing.
I find that thought comforting. No life, loved or unloved, is ever wasted.
Sometimes the tiniest things are those we need most. Not everything is written on stone.
Remember: Life is precious. To give or take a life is a momentous, monstrous decision. Those who guard us are precious lives. Remember. Never forget. The soldier is not the war.
Plant your gardens. Whisper the names you love most, and give them into the care of the living.