Like rain on parched earth
The garden started off as a project belonging to the kids. A volunteer project to benefit the community, a garden filled with native plants, stationed at a popular mountain preserve, to be shown as an educational resource to tourists and schools on field trips.
For the most part, it still belongs to the kids. They tend the soil. They research the plants they are going to grow, and write papers on both their histories and the proper way to care for them. They plant the seeds. They weed. They paint little plant marker signs and make sure they are upright on each visit.
But I have a confession to make. The garden has become my sacred space, and while I often take the children with me, I take every opportunity I can find to leave them behind when I go to water.
It was easy enough today. We had spent most of the day packing up remnants of the old house and cleaning. Temperatures reached a scorching 112 Fahrenheit, and everyone was hot, tired, and irritable enough that when I mentioned that it was our family's turn to water the garden, the kids all groaned. I was all too happy to leave them at home with the air conditioner and access to an endless supply of cool water while I ventured out into the hot evening to water the plants.
When I arrived at the mountain, I passed another woman on the small access trail. This is unusual, as the trail isn't open to the public, and it's only the second time I've seen anyone other than a park ranger or other members of our group walking this path. We quickly eyed each other, and I could tell both of us were trying to figure out of the other was supposed to be there. When I saw her badge and the animal carrier she was hefting, it was pretty obvious that she was ok. Being that she looked slightly nervous, and there was absolutely nothing about me that screamed that I had every right to be where I was, I smiled at her and mumbled something about working on the garden. She smiled and nodded, and continued on her way.
By the time I had grabbed the hose and started hauling it towards the garden, the veterinarian was gone, and I was completely alone, save for a lone mountain biker, so far away he looked more like an ant than a fellow human being.
The wind felt like the backdraft from a furnace as it blew across my face. I felt the heat build in my lips and singe my eyes through my sunglasses. As I twisted the tap to turn on the water, I felt my shoulders relax, and I fell into my communion with the plants, my favored form of meditation these days.
In some ways, I experience this garden in the exact same way I experience zazen. I have brief moments of being absolutely aware and present, clear-minded. The thoughts come and go. For a brief time, I am clear. I am simply watering the plants. Nothing more. Nothing less.
The first thought that drifted through my mind today was that I haven't heard from my mother in three weeks. This is extremely unusual. She usually calls every Sunday. Once in a great while, she will miss a Sunday, and when this happens, she will usually call within the next couple of days with apologies and explanations of why she couldn't get to a phone. Or she will have one of my aunts call me to let me know she isn't able to call. This time? Nothing. Not a single word.
I am ashamed to say that two weeks ago, it didn't even cross my mind. Last week, I thought it peculiar, but didn't think much about it beyond that. I've had a lot going on, and it didn't really register. Today it registered. Surely, if something was truly wrong, someone in my family would call. Right? Maybe. If they knew. Are they checking on her regularly? I don't know. Is she sick? Back in a psychiatric ward? In jail? On the streets? Could it be as simple as her inability to get anyone to let her borrow their phone for three weeks? That seems highly unlikely. Less likely to me than any of the other options, actually.
It drifted away, as suddenly as it had appeared. Back to the plants. Back to the water. Until the next thought. The next thought was about Ivory Soap. Where did that come from? And why? Why today? Why in this place, my sanctuary in the desert? I felt my legs involuntarily clench, knees pressed tightly together. Funny how the body will protect, even when the threat has not existed for years, decades even. How old was I? Three? Four? I could recall the pain as though it happened moments before. It doesn't matter if soap is so pure that it floats, when applied to red, abraded skin on the most sensitive part of your body, it's going to sting. I could smell that disgusting soap, see my little red and yellow tugboat floating beside me, hear the scream.
I lost my grip on the hose, and it whipped around, smacking my legs. I grabbed it up, and held it close to the ground. The mud sprayed up my legs, cool, covering, cleansing. There was reassurance in the spatter. The tears were involuntary, but I allowed them.
The tepary beans and corn swayed in the hazy breeze, a circle of comfort, the amaranth (oh, amaranth, don't tell the others, but you are my favorite) listened to what I left unsaid, the devil's claw and ceremonial peyote gourds held wordless counsel, and the cotton absorbed it all.
I thought about the adults I lived with as a child, and about how we are all doing the best we can at any given time. Unfortunately, sometimes the best someone is capable of isn't all that great. But it's still what they've got to work with, and it is what it is. Making peace with that is crucial for me in order to avoid endless anger and blame.
Time passed. The mud dried on my legs. The sun started to sink in the sky. Cried out, exhausted, healed, I turned off the water, thanked the plants as I always do, and walked down the path to my car.
As I walked, I thought to myself about how quickly landscapes can be changed. When we started this garden, there was no trail. The park ranger had the kids walk single file and drag their feet. Within a couple of days, there was a clear path where before none had existed.
In mere moments of shifting my focus around various life events, I have changed the entire landscape of my life. Creating paths for myself where before, none existed. Forgiving, and letting go of blame.
When I got home, Brooklyn said, "Hey mama, how was the garden?"
I said, "The garden was beautiful, baby. Nothing short of a miracle."
