Chartreuse

Her fingers trail softly along the wet leaves yet burdened with morning dew, each drop mirroring back to her the unfurling beauty of a new day. She seems, somehow, to commune, a silent interchange flowing from leaf to finger and back again. The early sunlight, just beginning to spill over the horizon behind her, breaks along the curve of her profile, a corona of warm peach and lemon hues. She is ethereal here in her element, wandering with purpose, inspecting each tree and each flowering plant, intuiting their needs, eager to provide for them. Small exclamations of pleasure escape her lips as she chances upon a newly opened zinnia bloom here, a ripening yellow pear tomato there, her joy undiminished by the fact that she made similar discoveries the day before. And the day before that. Every green and living thing she chances upon at any given moment presents as fresh to her, a reason to rejoice at the daily opening of her eyes and mind. From the garden flows the who and what, even the why, of her hidden self - the self often partially obscured by interruptions of a life not at peace with the ebb and flow of photosynthesis abounding around her now stooped and curious form.

From the garden she absorbs and accepts the miracle of creation by a God who is at once an artist, a landscaper, an excavator, a Father bestowing the ongoing gift of grace from which flows all the beauty of this world. Here on this plot of well-tended earth, where she snips the aromatic leaves of basil and rosemary, thyme and sage, lavender and parsley (she insists upon Italian parsley, with its broader, flat leaves, less ornamental, she says, but full of deep green flavor so perfect for pairing with pasta or fish or salsa, to name but a few), she manages to absorb an understanding of the truth. For her it is basic, elemental. Her strong blunt fingers dig shallow holes in the rich brown loam she has worked so hard to create with home-ripened compost, double-digging, and plain old-fashioned hard work. She carefully - always this way with her plants, as if it is her first time to set root to soil and something might be missed if she moves too fast - introduces each seedling to its new home, knowing the reward will be worth the entire list of efforts required to arrive at the planting, to perpetuate the planting. To witness her toil is to witness a momentary transformation, a temporary arrival, of a being freed from the bondage of sin and strife, demonstrating the possibilities inherent within the promises of her very real faith.

Seeing her this way, surrounded within this backyard womb of lush pale greens and deep yellows, pinks, purples, and reds, it is a simple desire . . . to wish oneself as the orb-weaver sitting handsomely on its impressive web, still and serene when she lightly strums the outer edge of the silken garden art, pleased, as ever, that the tiny denizens of the insect world find her natural space wholly acceptable. If she requested, ladybugs and fireflies would form two lines, politely choose partners, and execute a polished and sprightly waltz. As much love flows from her and fertilizes each and every square foot upon which she now stands, reciprocal love in equal measures wends its way, surefooted and keen, back to her.

A substantial amount of time passes. Watering cans, gardening gloves, hoses and rakes, stakes and ties, all parade from the tiny storage cottage on the edge of the property to be reunited with their individual duties A breeze, rippling in the tallest branches of the stately elm which presides over the entirety of her generous cultivation, lifts the hairs on the back of her neck where fine beads of moisture have collected. Her face is turned to the sky, now a brilliant azure spreading beyond the eye's perception, and her arms strain with the weight of her bounty. What she has gathered will make its way to the kitchen for use in every type of dish conceivable, both savory and sweet. Sharp knives will slice, chop, and dice. Deep pots will simmer, boil, and steam. Shallow pans will brown, fry, and sear. The oven will bubble and bake. Plates will rejoice to be of useful service and utensils will compete for the praise of a job well done. Mouths will sing and bellies will throw parties. And, as this going-about-her-business unfolds, she will give thanks and praise to her maker for this excess of riches in her life.