Earthly delights. . .

Finished getting the vegetables into the ground last night. Cucumbers, zucchini, straight necked squash, a variety of peppers and some sugar peas. This in addition to the tomatoes, onions, cabbages, peppers, and peas I planted a couple of weekends ago.

I also finished laying down the herb bed in the front yard. We’ve got chives, rosemary, cilantro, lavender, basil, spicy oregano and dill. Soon we’ll be adding white sage for ceremony and catnip for the critters.

I LOVE getting my hands dirty.

The longer it takes me to clean my fingernails, the happier I am.

There’s something very healing about working in the earth.  Although I’ve never fathered children, prepping the garden feels to me like readying the nursery.  And indeed, that’s exactly what it is.  The soil is carefully tended.   The rows are perfectly laid out.  And when they arrive, the wee ones are tucked gently into their earthen bed with whispered prayers and quiet conversation.

Tilling the soil is tilling the soul.  What comes of it depends entirely upon what we sow, and the care we’re willing to provide for the things we’ve planted. . .

Voices in the sky. . .

“Nightingale, hovering high
Harmonize the wind
Darkness, your symphony
I can hear you sing
Of voices in the sky”

-The Moody Blues

It’s ten minutes to four.  I’m awake simply because I’ve no further need for sleeping.  I’m out in the back yard standing by the garden in the pre-dawn humidity.  It feels good to be among green things.  I feel their energy, and I am keenly aware of their growing.

Just beyond the garden, a single small boulder marks the center of what will be our medicine wheel.  It lends a purpose to the space; makes it sacred.  The stone is rather plain, but commands attention.  It is shaped like the head of a bear, its snout pointed towards the west. I enter the space.  The freshly cut grass feels good beneath my feet, and I am immediately in the presence of something powerful and familiar.

Turning eastward, I raise my hands to the sky and ask, “What would you have me do today, Great Spirit?”

A single word comes back to me on the wind:

“Rejoice.”

The voice fades; mingles with the distant songs of morning birds, the mechanical growl of an automobile engine.  The neighborhood it seems, is waking up…

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes…

“If you don’t  want to change, don’t do the work.”

- Jim Frank: elder and friend

Nothing special happened this weekend.  Or rather, I should say that this weekend’s activities were pretty much a continuation of last weekend’s – and of the one before that.   Worked with a patient at the studio, weeded the garden; cut the grass; placed a few gargoyles around the mulch bed; packed and unpacked a slew of boxes in preparation for the move at the end of the month.  All in all, a mellow – if rather busy – weekend.

While talking with a friend at work the other day, he remarked that I was no longer “that same Ben J.” he saw sitting at a local  watering hole some five years ago.  And I had to agree with him.  In those days it was bars and nights out with the pool league. Weekends were spent running to parties or hanging out with friends until the wee hours of the morning.

Slowly though, that all began to fall away.  Like a few stray drops of rain coalescing into a trickle and finally a stream, Spirit crept in and planted my feet firmly upon the good Red Road.  Now the parties are quieter and generally end before midnight. My immediate circle now includes a fiancé.  And sweat lodges and gardening have taken the place of nightclubs and raucous carousing.

Surely my former self would look at the man I’ve become and conclude that I’ve lost my edge.  The need for constant activity is gone, and with it the predatory gleam of a young man’s eye.  Old friends have disappeared, and a newer, less self-destructive crowd has shown up to take their place.  We sip our wine now, the same way we savor the first pale light of a sunrise – the first thin shoots of green breaking through the soil of a back yard garden.

Fire in the belly has taken the place of fever in the brain.

And my own path has led me here to stand in the place of the West; the direction of work and the responsibility of adulthood.  Like pebbles dropped onto the surface of still pond, the ripples of actions are not only observed, but contemplated.  Mother Bear has moved incredible power through this body.  Since picking up the drum, I have been both midwife and observer to events which most would deem “miraculous”.

And yet, it all feels simply as it should. . .

Diggin’ the garden…

"Hosta la vista, Baby..."

 

“We are stardust, we are golden
We are billion year old carbon
And we got to get ourselves back to the garden”

-Crosby, Stills and Nash

We got back to the house from a family Easter dinner at around 5:00 yesterday with seven newly acquired hostas in the trunk of the car.  By 6:30 I’d gathered the necessary equipment from the garage and was out in the front yard putting spade to earth. 

The sun was shining, but the cool breeze and a heavy bank of clouds hanging low in the west spoke of rain.  My goal was to get the hostas into the ground before it started.

I set the plants on the lawn in their perspective spots and began digging the holes.  The soil in the front yard is mostly sand, so the spade sank in with little effort.  I sprinkled organic fertilizer into the bottom of the holes and settled each plant into its place, packing the roots gently but firmly with handfuls of gritty earth.

I had just finished working with the sixth hosta when the first few drops of rain hit the back of my hand.

“Just ten more minutes, Father Sky,” I said.  “Just enough time to get the last one into the ground.  Mother Earth is willing to cooperate – how about you?”

As the rain increased, I got up and took my iPod into the garage.  I returned to the yard and knelt to dig the final hole. 

Turning again to Father Sky, I decided upon a different tactic.  “Thank you for the gift of this beautiful rain, Father Sky,” I said.  “Thank you for the water that fertilizes the Earth and nourishes all those who are thirsty.”

Immediately the rain stopped.  I set to work planting the last hosta.  Afterwards I carried the sod back to the compost bin and sprinkled mulch around the plants.  I took some time to inspect my work, and as I bent to pick up the shovel, I thought I might have time to plant some tulips we’d been gifted before it got too dark.

No sooner did I think this than a light rain began to fall.  I laughed.  “Message received,” I said watching the clouds roll in.  Father Sky had kept his end of the bargain.  With gratitude for His favor, I took the tools back into the garage just as the rain started to come down heavier.  My fiancé and I set up a couple of lawn chairs in the garage and sat for a while watching it splatter and bounce along the pavement. 

We talked for a bit until the rain let up.  To the west amid the dark grey, we noticed two particular white clouds: one shaped like a single stalk with a few spare leaves breaking through the soil.  Next to it was another, smaller cloud shaped exactly like Kokopelli, the trickster – musician and deity of fertility and agriculture.  As we watched, Kokopelli transformed into the visage of Eagle.

In his wisdom, Father Sky had given me one final message for the evening:

 “Let the joy of your vision continue to grow.” 

I picked up the shovel and the pot of tulips and headed back out into the yard…

Sunday morning. . .

 

“And every Saturday we work in the yard
Pick up the dog do
Hope that it’s hard (whaf whaf)
Take out the garbage and clean out the garage
My friend’s got a Chrysler
I’ve got a Dodge
We’re just ordinary average guys.”

-Joe Walsh

Sunday was an absolutely gorgeous day.  High wispy clouds arced across an otherwise unbroken sky.  By 10:00, I was down to a cotton tee shirt. 

I’d charged the drill the night before, and in the morning, I’d set to work drilling out a second compost bin to catch the overflow of leaves from the Sweetgum in the front yard.  One man’s nuisance is another man’s compost factory.

Once I’d finished with the drill, I began the work of transferring the compost from the old tub to the new one, adding a dry batch of leaves as I went along.  The hay fork bit deeply into the pile, seemingly as eager as I was for the work. 

After the piles were evened out and watered, I dragged a tarp around to the front of the house and raked the yard.  I gathered the leaves and took them back to the compost tubs where I watered them and turned them into the mix.

I collected the strays with a final pass of the rake and spread them over the tops of the containers.  I placed the lids back on and put away my tools some two and a half hours after the project began.

As a child whose parents had never owned a home, I was acutely aware of what a blessing it was to work in the yard on a Sunday morning in Autumn, accompanied by the cheerful droning of a lawnmower in the distance.

“It doesn’t take much to make you happy,” a woman I’d worked with once told me.  This was meant as a jibe about my apparent lack of concern for the “finer things in life”. 

Obviously, for someone with tastes as important as hers, a hay fork and a compost bin could never match that description.  But around these parts, they pretty much fit the bill. . .