SOMETIMES, WHEN I’M SITTING OUT HERE IN MY LITTLE BIT OF COUNTRY, and at other times too, my mind hammers me with questions that I will never know the answers to. In the empty space it takes to write, there is also room to wonder, and I can find myself musing over life and death and meaning. Like most of us, I can feel tortured by the need to know. But I’ve learned that all that’s required to quiet the squabbling voices in my head is to go outdoors. It’s there I find something to hold on to. Especially in spring, when I feel that God is sharing just a small secret with me.
So much, it seems, is purposefully kept from us. And the mystery of life, which holds much beauty, can feel bottomless, and unstable. Beneath the leftover leaves of fall, though, where bright green growth peaks through, and as brilliant colors bud from what was, only days before, brown empty branches, I am comforted. This basic bit of botany seems to say so much about renewal and continuation. It’s not so much that there’s knowledge to be gained in the garden as there is a sense of knowing. That the world is not pointless and dying, but spinning and breaking forth. It’s not that in the garden I will find my lost loved ones come back to me. But in the garden I am given the hope that, for them, too, there could be a new beginning, something bright and colorful. Of course, I don’t know. It’s just a feeling I get when I observe nature in the particular cocooning of soft breezes and tender sunlight.