A Sunday Doxology
Glory to the God who
invites me to a place of
as a way of living in this
as a way of choosing calm
over anxiety and angst.
Praise to you, the God who
speaks order into the disordered,
who says, Come.
Live. Move. Have your being
where I am in control.
Still. Always. Forever.
A Saturday Caesura
It rained in pieces this week. Now the backyard has estuaries and shallow water ports for visiting mallards and blue-winged teals. I find something therapeutic in shedding my day job to slosh around in rubber boots, childlike. Even on grey, damp days I find a particular satisfaction in the labour of hands in dirt, the digging and planting and replanting, the work of the gardener.
I find a sense of place and belonging in knowing the trees and plants growing in my yard. I know exactly where to check for nubby fiddlehead crowns and the first of the lilies to probe for daylight. I train a wild gooseberry bush to grow along the range fence, espalier-style. I say hello to the oldest diamond willow, respectful of its aging bark and cracking limbs. Like many of the fast-growing short-living poplars in our yard, the willow is dying. They all need to be cut down and replaced. I know this, and know this process of growing and dying is the signature of a fallen creation, but I will miss these tree-friends when they go.
I dig up, relocate the lilies and a clump of sedum. I’ll eventually do the same with columbine, Jacob’s ladder, ligularia, hosta, lily-of-the-valley. The soil is heavy, saturated with downpours and drizzles; it drips raw earthy odours. Earthworms wriggle in the wake of the shovel. I cradle the plants in my hands, ease them into their new bed, and pray they thrive here.
I need them to live.
I spread compost, rebuild a small rock wall, clean my shovel, put the wheelbarrow away. It rains, again.
There is goodness in this work. It cultivates and nourishes contentment.
gently leading my heart to
green pastures and
quiet waters that
refresh deep, dry places,
cause goodness and mercy
each minute filled to the
measure of all the
fullness of grace.
Some days are so
eloquently ordinary so
marvellously routine so
we are inclined to add some
spice, flair, panache, zip, zing, and zest.
Simple gratitude is actually the best.
Contentment is such a profound treasure
that thieves, marauders, deceivers abound,
disguised – as media, even weather –
they do all they can to steal and confound.
Choosing gratitude preserves this treasure,
infuses each day with joy beyond measure.
Creates a comforting cocoon
Where rest lingers deep and long.
– lightning in the winter seems rather incongruent for some reason, but I can now vouch for its existence.
– seeing a mama moose kneeling on her front legs to lick a chunk of salty ice is quite hilarious. Gave a whole new meaning to “bums up.”
– having your car washed by moose tongues (mama and her twins) is quite… gross? unique? weird? Still processing that one.
– when the snow is up to a moose’s belly, snowshoes may be a better choice than cross-country skis. I love skiing, but that outing gave a new perspective on the concept of “breaking trail.”
– vegetables taste better than chocolates
– I never get as much done during Christmas break as I plan. I’ve learned to be okay with that.
– differences in age and stages of life are not impediments to rich times of sharing-laughing-rejoicing-crying with other women. So grateful for the young women in my life. And the older ones, too.
– contentment is a profound and beautiful word