Reflections

Random Reflections

Over the past few weeks of working in my small garden I've come to understand the beauty and gifts of just pulling up roots of grass and weeds from the garden. It forces me to pace myself, be gentle, pull evenly with pressure, determine what is a weed, and what isn't. There is something almost sedative and meditative about this whole process.

As I spend time out there digging around and planting in the dirt, I realize that I am talking with my grandfather, appreciating all he taught me when I was a child and didn't even realize I was listening. "Be gentle. Go slow. Pull evenly. Be sure to get the roots. Make sure you get them all. Make sure that you get them all."

I garden without gloves, and find myself running my fingers in the dirt, taking in the pleasant coolness, the aroma, and just sensing possibility in my hands and fingers. There is something energizing about getting my hands dirty, something that allows the whole world to drop away as I find myself talking with the creatures that are magically appearing - the ladybugs, the bees, the HUGE earthworms (I'm having Dune flashbacks here!). Talking to the plants, the creatures, the wind. At the end of a couple of hours I'm caked in layers of clay and dirt on my knees and hands.

There are those around me who may say that I'm off my rocker. But, for the first time in a long time, I am allowing myself the time to be sick - and take care of myself. I'm taking the time to do something that brings me joy. I'm going slowly and making sure the garden is not all about work. It's nurturing; it's taking the time to care for something I know I can help and will bring beauty (and sustenance) into the world. It's talking to the others who are lovingly doing the same.

Somehow the quiet of no electric lights, no electric fans, no tv, no radio - just winds, bugs, and the voice of a child playing nearby with dad "Flower? Flower. FLOWER." The little boy's voice moves from questioning, to recognizing, to displaying and running around showing anyone who'll look up, listen and take note his wondrous prize.

A dandelion.

You may call it a weed - but to this little guy, it's a dozen roses from Daddy. A flower from his garden. The joyous, unstoppable energy of the dandelion is magnified by the child.

The dandelion. Reflection both the radiance of the sun and the power and frailty of the moon over the course of its life. The dandelion is the strength and cunning and power of the lion whose name it carries, a brilliant flash of yellow in a solid sea of green. And the lightness of a wish on the wind...a gossamer moon waiting for you to come and make your wishes known, to carry away them on wings. It is the flower of the god and goddess - sun and moon, vibrant and full and beauteous, in life and in death.

So go outside today. Look for the flash of yellow in your lawn and fields. Look for the gossamer moon waving in the breeze. Stop. Appreciate the unstoppable, untamable energy of the dandelion.

Click here for Part II of this reflection...

(Written after the experience of a morning in a Bread and Puppet Mourning Woman puppet)

I wear the mask.

I wear the mask of a woman I do not know, but I know her pain, her loss, her anger, her pride.

I wear the mask of a woman torn in two about her own country and what it does to its own people, a woman who is oppressed by those who govern her.

I wear the mask of a woman who desperately wants peace and a new way of living, who knows that there are other ways of living, but isn’t sure what, or how.

The only difference is, today, that mask has the face of an Iraqi woman.

I stand dressed in black, looking out through the eyes of this woman I have never met. I invite her to see that not all Americans look upon her as someone who needs to be rescued, who by very nature of the country is from, see her as "less than" or evil. I invite her to see that there are those who are fighting for her right to live.

And she invites me to hold her hand, her heart, to feel the weight she carries. To feel the weight of not knowing what is happening in her own country, but knowing that in the end, she will lose friends, family, loved ones. Knowing that Saddam has oppressed, but there is no certainty that who comes next will be any better.

I stand here, this morning, in Vermont, looking at the sun glint off of the cars driving by, and realize that we are not so different, this woman and I.

I feel her grief over the loss of her loved one, and I know this pain, this emptiness. I feel her fear. Feel her anger at what we are doing to her country, her people, her land, her family. Feel her want for a new way of life. Feel her desires to be heard, to be seen.

We mourn together, she for her family and I for mine. We hold each other in silence, compassion and love. And I know that we are connected, though I may never know her name. I bend forward, bearing the burden of her loss, and my heart is heavy.

I know this woman and her pain. But I also know her strength, her pride. Her resolve. She is a survivor and she will again face the world.

I wear the mask – see this woman, know her, love her, respect her and protect her as you would me. I know this woman and she knows me. We are one.