Most of
us, I think, wake up occasionally to a day when even the sunniest sky
can’t burn off the clouds of stress or worry in our minds. I had a
string of those cloudy days recently. Every item I’d written on my
long list was an indoor task, and every unwritten worry was something
I couldn’t do anything about – except to pray and be patient.
Major changes were coming to the lives of people I love, and it was
impossible to know how those changes would affect them – and how
they might change the hard-won balance in my own life.
Having
patience is always challenging to me because it requires waiting. To
close the karmic circle, of course, I know that, the more important
the wait, the more crucial is the patience. So there I was, creating
an indoor whirlwind of cleaning, organizing, mopping, laundry,
vacuuming, menu planning, ironing – all powered by anxiety. A hard
knot of tension balled in my chest, and a returning, familiar panic
fluttered around in there, too.
Outside,
under an Idaho blue sky, my garden lay waiting, peaceful and
beautiful, and seeming as far away as the moon. Finally I unplugged
the iron (who irons nowadays? I know; I’m a relic) and nearly ran
out the kitchen door to the flagstone path that would lead me to my
flowers – and peace. Slowly, I walked through my garden, at first
simply letting the jewel colors wash through my mind. As I calmed, I
took time to look more closely, to notice which of the plants had
begun to bloom since I had checked a few days ago, and which bare
spots needed filling.
I
stopped to prop a tall, deep blue delphinium and to pinch dead
blossoms off a ruffled pansy plant. A graceful stem of pale gaura
swayed among the roses and reminded me of the quiet charm of white
flowers. My mind had been swirling with the reds and purples of
thoughts and worries. I needed this white peace now.
Change.
I thought about that word – and its ability to unleash the darkest
colors in my mind – as I walked slowly back to the house. We
impetuous gardeners tend to focus most of our passion on planting and
caring for perennials, the flowers and bushes that will survive the
winter and come back every year. We will use annuals as accents, but
we know that those bright spots of temporary color will blacken and
die at the first frost. We want permanence, in our gardens and in
our lives. We create our gardens over years, adding beds, enriching
the soil, making plans that involve years of plantings. Every
January, we start waiting for spring, eager to welcome back our
favorites for another growing season and taking comfort in the
predictable return of beauty.
Impetuous
gardeners can deal with change – of course, we can. We are known
for our willingness to transplant and divide our perennials. We
gladly will share them with friends or move them to new spots in our
own gardens, where we think they will be happier. But we like to know
that the outer boundaries of our gardens – and, maybe, of our lives
– will hold steady against the kind of change that can set all the
colors of our gardens whirling in our minds.
Before I
reached the kitchen door that day, I turned back for one more visit
to the white flowering gaura plant. Its stems looked fragile, and its
pale, pink-tinged petals could have been overshadowed by the dramatic
red, purples, and blues of the flowers blooming around it. But I had
seen that delicate- looking gaura bowed by a fierce wind during a
summer storm and survive with all its petals undamaged. And among all
the colors in my garden, it was to the white gaura that I turned when
I needed comfort. The gaura is, I think, a strong and patient flower.
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