Sunday Meditation #20: Weeds Grow Again...As Do Souls

Some thoughts for this Easter Sunday, born in dirt and grown in pensive light...

I feel unqualified to speak in depth of the significance of Easter. Others know more, and have said it better. The commentary is too well known for me to illuminate it further.  Instead I will speak of rebirth on a small scale, the kind to be found in weeds and dirt, flowers and sunlight, on a rather ordinary Saturday.

My mind had been caroming about, never sitting still. A shame, really, on such a beautiful day. I flitted from chore to chore. I folded laundry, swept floors, caulked tubs. Yard work beckoned for the second day in a row. I finally could not take the confines of my house any longer and fled to the less claustrophobic setting of my backyard. It was white gold sunlight under a cerulean sky. The lessening of tension in my shoulders and gut were immediate, even as I drew on gloves and hefted the weed whacker.

The weeds were thick in the back planting bed, to my chagrin. I set the machine down, considered the thick mat of creeping plants that were threatening the little Japanese maple I have come to love. I bent down and with both hands began to tear at the runners. The crunch of leaves, snapping of twigs sounded oddly soothing in symmetry with the bird songs and wind. I pulled and clutched. I relaxed.

As I cleared weeds, I felt a lightening of spirit, wonderful and mysterious. The weeds I am sure saw no friend in me, but for the first time in a long time I felt no grudge against them. It felt good to clear, to uncover, to make things right. I finally understood that if the weeds were to have a purpose other than being a nuisance, it was to make me appreciate the joy of simple tasks with measurable results.  This rejuvenated me.

We can all rise again, in ways big and small, and it is perhaps the small ways that underpin our lives. I give thanks for the joy of small things.

Lilacs and Lightning Bolts

Maybe it was just a coincidence, maybe it was someone or some thing trying to get through to me, but today I felt...good.  Like I had energy and a purpose.  I woke up this morning with an eagerness to get started on the day.  Instead of dozing off again and again, it was up and out with vigor.

That it was Easter Sunday was not lost on me.  Rebirth, renewal, rejuvenation, rising and all that.

I am not what you would call a religious man.  Perhaps it may be more accurate to say that I am a man with spiritual leanings, who wonders if he is religious.  Even if I am still grappling with God in all the incarnations put forth by mankind, it is inescapable that I was brought up in a Christian tradition; thus, the symbols and rituals of it are always there in the background.  It is a frame of reference, if I may borrow a bit from physics.

Empty tombs and rising sons weren't really on my mind, though, as I wasn't headed for church.  I was headed for my backyard.  Jesus may have risen this weekend, but then again, so did the grass.  Between the weather, travel and my work schedule lately I have had precious little time to tend to the oasis that is my home.

It is true for me that unfinished business causes me noticeable anxiety.  A low-grade background hum, when I know I have things to do and I can't (or just don't) get to them expediently.  So it was with the yard work.  Brush to chop, leaves to rake, weeds to pull, branches to trim and grass galore waiting to be cut.  I just wanted it done.

So it came to pass that on a glorious Easter morning I was outside pulling and cutting, chopping and bagging, all the while sweating like a waterfall, huffing and puffing like a beached fish.  But, honestly?  It felt good.  It felt real good, even when I was about to faint towards the end of the grass cutting. (Nothing a little exercise won't cure, I'm sure.)

It felt good because I was focused and relaxed.  I had simple problems with measurable results.  The serious case of The Funk that I had been unable to shake for weeks was finally, truly gone.  I read somewhere once, that it is nearly impossible to be depressed when engaged in meaningful work.  I say that is true, if the bubble of bliss I experienced today was any indication.  Sunshine, fresh air and a purpose: it doesn't get any better.

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EPILOGUE:

I experienced some moments of grace today, courtesy of the natural world.  In my backyard there is a pair of lilac bushes, separated by another bush in between, the species of which I am unsure.  These lilac bushes blossom early, and when they do they start emitting the most wonderful aroma, the kind of aroma that makes me go outside just to breathe in when I have a spare moment.  Today while cutting the grass I walked right into a lilac branch, sporting a blossom which caressed its way across my cheek.  My lungs filled up with lilac fragrance, and I couldn't help but smile.

Later in the afternoon, some fast moving thunderstorms rolled in to the area.  The sky took on that amazing shade of pewter while bright silver bolts of lightning bracketed the area around where I lived.  I had the windows open, and I had to shut a few when fat drops of rain started splashing through the screens.  The wind was high, but not destructive, and the aroma of the rain was heavenly.  I was tending to a pot of beans on the stove, watching the branches sway and lightning crease the sky, and thinking this was a fine day indeed.  A fine day to come back to life, no matter what we think of ourselves.

Renewal

Asleep in the grass,
Soul and sun rising anew,
Celebrate this life

Rebirth, Renewal, Rejuvenation

Original Artwork by Irish Gumbo

Easter Eggs and Gumbo

We colored eggs yesterday, and the Spouse, er, The Easter Bunny left a basket of goodies for Wee Lass to find this morning when she came downstairs after getting out of bed. She was very excited, especially when she saw the nibbled pieces of carrot we had left out for the Bunny. She laughed and oohed and aahed over the candies and the eggs. Her laughter warmed my heart.

Eggs, resurrection and rejuvenation on my mind as I sat down to write something this morning. Inspiration coming to me this morning in the form of sunlight streaming through the window next to the couch. A chilly Easter Sunday outside, clear warmth spilling across me and the computer as I write, here inside the house. Eggs made me think of food, which made me think of cooking, which made me think of writing. Which in turn, made me think of how little writing I have done lately. I am, I realized, in dire need of rejuvenation. Not exactly being in position to provide it for myself, I have been seeking it in the work of others.

I have read of a gumbo that, believe it or not, includes sliced hardboiled eggs as part of the recipe. It may sound weird, but it is in keeping with "gumbo" as a concept, a method rather than a proscribed set of ingredients.

And isn't that a wonderful thing?

I used to want a recipe for everything, no matter what I was doing: cooking, reading, writing...living. For a while this worked. Recipes are useful in that they give structure and ideas where there may be none. A recipe can give you a map when one has no idea of the terrain. Recipes can also be limiting. Be careful the recipe does not become a trap.

Recipes are dangerous in that they only inform, they do not teach.

Following recipes is not so much an exercise in achieving brilliance as it is one of avoiding failure. The distinction is subtle, but crucial. I say this because I have eaten more of my mistakes than I have dished up my triumphs. And I have learned so much from those mistakes. There comes a time where one has to do, not just be a passive observer.

That is not to say it is impossible to learn by watching, observing, studying.

Last week I was honored to have three guests posts here on Irish Gumbo: Captain Dumbass, Idiot Boy and cIII. And it occurred to me, as sat down in the sunbeam at the window, that I hadn't asked those fine gentlemen to post because I was too lazy.

It was because I wanted to learn something. I was looking for rejuvenation, something to shore up my sagging spirits and worn-out mind after a long winter of cold, grey damp and spiritual corrosion. I reckoned all three of those fellows would be able to help, and my instinct was rewarded. My spirits were lifted by their humor, rejuvenated by their insight. I learned something about writing. Suffering from thin blood and cold hands, that was the tonic I needed to shake off some rust.

Am I ready to get back in the driver's seat, set my feet in the blocks, hit the ignition button? Not quite, but I am warming up. It's spring, there are blossoms on cherry and forsythia. I can feel the sap rising in the trees. It won't be long.

Happy Easter, one and all. Time to start waking up.