Lived In Sacredness
Every day I take a walk along the pathways of the ridge. Well, every day that it is possible, anyway. I find myself longing for the things that I see just beginning their concert with life to hurry up and bloom. Part of it is that I am still getting to know the sanctuary. Although I can identify most of the plant species, I have no way of knowing what the garden will look like when they are in full bloom - unapologetically displaying their color to everyone who will come close enough to see. But what color will it be? Will it be a sea of red, a blanket of purple, a smattering of yellow, or the twinkling of random white blossoms dancing in the ethereal sunlight? My excitement for the reveal cannot be contained.
I want to see the painting completed. I want to witness the fullness of it all. And, if I am honest, for a while I silently wanted it to be a perfect display of nature’s awesome beauty. I wanted to photograph it and share it with the world in the peak of its becoming.
And then a friend reflected this thought back to me and I realized what I was doing. I realized that I wasn’t honoring the garden for the beauty it contained in every moment of every day. Rain, snow, ice or sun… it was beautiful and magical in all of them. And just like the starts of those young plants, other things in the garden that could be neater, more polished and put together, weeded, raked, blown, and trimmed were creating a type of anxiety in my mind wanting it all to look just right. The hose snaking its way across the landscape - left where it lay after the work of nourishing the young tender plants with fresh, clean water - should be draped over its holder. The opportunistic wildflowers (aka weeds) in between “known” flowers should be pulled. The clover in the front yard that feeds hundreds, if not thousands of bees, as well as the very hungry Appalachian Cottontail Rabbits every week needs cut. The pathways needed edging. The driveway needed blown off. The lamp post needs the bird poop cleaned off of it. These were the things that had consumed my mind as I walked.
It dawned on me that this was a mirror of my anxiety over my new homeplace here. I had been working for months to get rooms painted, furnished, and filled through thoughtful contemplation about not only the home I wanted it to be, but also the Sanctuary that would welcome guests for years to come. It wasn’t ‘finished’ either, and the closer it came to guests arriving, the more stressed out I became. I came to the realization that it was my pride that wanted these things to look a certain way. I might have used the phrase “their best” before, but now I know that isn’t the case. Best or Worst - these are not words that can be used for this anymore. At least not by me.
The gardens, the bedrooms, the pathways, the kitchen, the weeds, the creek, the bird poop, the paint, the hose, and the fence missing a rail are a work in progress—as am I.
I began seeing the beauty in the now, the stage, the cycle, the becoming, and the unraveling again. I could see the beauty in the process and the stagnation. I could see the beauty in the bird poop, and the greenness before the color, and the evolving woman that I am through it all. This place… the Ridge, the Sanctuary, the Homeplace… it’s all Lived In, and it is Sacred.
And the bird poop is still on the lamp post.
