All Quiet on the Western Back

 
There is a moment in time when you must be still and just listen. This is the absence of speech, movement and even thought. For me, this is virtually an impossible assignment. I find it truly challenging to simply turn off my mind, heart and mouth. It is the act of receiving, taking in rather than pushing out. I’m not talking about faith or a movement of the spirit. It is more the process of being a receptacle for what is out there. Perhaps in the modern world this is search for the power of Nature.
I find that when my limited time is spent in the garden this is where I try to go. I have turned it into my own personal challenge or practice. In a world where control is a central theme, and I have the power to make decisions, right or wrong, and live by the consequences, there are not a lot of surprises. Sure life can turn upside down with a ring of the telephone or knock on the door. But for most of the day, we pretty much know how our journey will look. Bumpy, curvy or tediously straight and narrow, the roads we travel are not often filled with mystery.
Until you scratch beneath the surface that is.
This is the case in my parched, scrappy piece of backyard dirt. At the flattening base of Camelback, it is basically the stopping point for millennia of whatever ran off the Monk’s vestments and the Camel’s back. The ground is not fertile, nor welcoming of anything but weeds. I like to think that the Camel fiercely held on to whatever fertile things came across its path. From water to wildlife, the mountain did not let the good stuff roll down to my little patch of earth.
Nevertheless, as I pound my garden dirt clods into submission, I endeavor to receive the lessons that my shovel holds. I have learned that it takes a lot to get a seed to sprout. I have learned that water is the nectar of life. I have learned that roots follow the path of least resistance. Most importantly, what goes on up top is quite contrary to what goes on down below.
The process of standing still and listening to my garden is perplexing. I am still learning not to swear at the Quail who treat my lettuce bed as their own private salad bar. Of course, I shake my fist towards the heavens in a plea for rain and curse the Gods who could ever think Bermuda was a good idea. I would take giant cockroaches over the twisted vines of that indomitable grass any day.
As the weather warms and the natural world of the desert changes, I continue searching for what matters. I am trying to still my body, still my mind and let the leaves of my garden tell their story.
From the Heart…