Room to Grow

Over the past several years,  this tree has grown from a spindly random sprout into a giant, towering over my home. Countless hours have been spent in its shade, semi-secluded from neighbors, thinking, writing, reading, laughing, praying, crying, eating, wondering.

A few springs ago, I woke to a freak May snowstorm that had dumped a foot of heavy wet snow over everything newly green. My dear tree, my shelter from life's storms, had split down the middle.

A tree-fixer person gave me a plan to save it, which a friend executed. This tree has done much for me over the past several years as I've been learning to live alone. I will do much for it in return, to help it survive its own battles with whatever would threaten its existence.  

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This afternoon, I got out my saw and removed chunks of the 18-year-old bench that had been installed a decade before this tree even dreamed of sprouting. Two other times I'd taken a sliver out of the bench, but recent growth had the tree beginning to dislodge the planks. As my saw bit through the final inch of lumber,

I swear I heard the tree sigh in relief.

My tree taught me that sometimes things need to be cut away, in order to give room to grow.

What in your life is squeezing too tightly?

Eyes to see

This gangly geranium is SO me! All the life and color and joy in me, pressed against the window of winter and wondering if I just imagined last week's warmth.











My little garden buddy says, "No, you didn't imagine sitting on the deck last week, taking a sun bath. But neither are you imagining this fresh layer of snow. Be patient, my friend . . . this snow will melt and water all that is busy underground, gathering strength."












If I close my eyes, look with my heart, I can see this brave tuft of grass spreading all over the front yard, waving in sunshine.












I can see water in this pond shooting skyward, sparkling in the light.















I can see this blade of green at the base of a shockingly red tulip, opening up to show its yellow and black center.










Ah . . . see how the heat generated by this insistent growth is already melting the snow. This tiny field of daffodils can already see itself laughing in the wind.











And here come our newcomers . . . transplanted hybrid iris from a friend's yard last year. I once cut a bouquet of them while they lived in her yard that was so magnificently tall and gorgeous that it kept tipping the vase over. How will they do in MY yard? Will they be shy their first year? or will I see what I remember them to be: waist high, with stalks like broomsticks, and blooms of lavender/blue beauty bigger than my hand?






My eyes are open again, and yes, I see yesterday's snow and today's heavy obscuring fog. But I can also see, from deep within, the beauty about to blossom. I just have to know where to look.