Gentle Reader, slowing down to rest is not easy for me. I like to be busy, to juggle multiple projects and responsibilities. Busyness gives me a sense of purpose and accomplishment, and I’m embarrassed to say, even a sense of meaning. But the meaning of my life, myself, has to be more than my activities, more than my accomplishments, such as they are. Someday, I will no longer be able to do those things. For this reason, I am grateful for the Sabbath.
After the Mass, the back porch is the perfect place to enjoy the Sabbath. There, I can hear birdsong and feel the breeze on my skin. I can ponder the gift of my life, the gift of self-awareness.
My pondering won’t result in any answers. Instead, it will remind me that there is more to life than my daily activities. It will renew my appreciation for Mystery.
My roses were still in bud when I went out of town last week. Coming home, I found them in full flower. They will continue to bloom all summer, but they will never be as lush and extravagant as they are today.
There’s something almost magical about the garden in spring. I want to cling to the beauty, but I know it will eventually fade into the heat of summer.
I refuse to grieve. I think heaven will be like this, only it won’t pass away.
The violets are in full bloom now. They always remind me of St. Therese of Lisieux. In The Story of a Soul, she uses the analogy of violets to represent all the little souls who give God joy as they strive to love Him in their everyday lives. In God’s garden, these little souls do not demonstrate the splendor of the rose or the whiteness of the lily, but they give God joy as his glance falls upon their simple beauty.
The color of violets is the color of Lent. This is a solemn season. We try to ponder the unimaginable gift that Jesus has given us in his passion. We can’t fully appreciate it or understand it. After all, we are only little souls, little violets in the face of such a Mystery.
Here in Southern New Mexico, it’s still winter. When I leave the house in the morning, it’s just above freezing, but by afternoon, it has warmed up to the fifties (F).
A few violets have appeared. Soon there will be a purple carpet of the little dears. And new shoots of tall sedum have appeared among the dead stalks of last year’s offering. They remind me of miniature cabbages.
Spring isn’t in the air yet, but it shimmers on the horizon.
Although many of the trees in our neighborhood are almost bare, our ash trees have only begun to shed their golden leaves. Soon the ground will be covered with a golden carpet. I am reminded of two of my favorite ‘golden’ quotes:
“All that is gold does not glitter…” (J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings)
“…I saw seven golden lampstands, and in the midst of the lampstands I saw one like the Son of Man, clothed with a long robe and with a golden sash across his chest….” (Rev. 1:13, NRSV, Catholic ed.)
Advent is a time of expectation, a time of waiting for all that is good and beautiful. Here’s to the once, present, and future King!
Just above freezing, the air was crisp and clean this morning on the way to Mass. There was some fall color, but most of the leaves on the pecan trees had fallen. Still, it was a scene of serenity and beauty as I pondered the scene in silence.
I was so grateful to have the freedom to go to Mass and worship, and I prayed for all the beautiful young men and women who have died in too many wars to guarantee that freedom. May they rest in the glory of the beatific vision.
It’s late afternoon in the garden, and it’s November. The coral-colored blossoms on the yucca have turned into dry stalks (pictured above right). But there’s something about a hidden garden that’s always intriguing, even to its owners.
The shady side
The shady side of the garden is my favorite spot, especially in the heat of summer.
But the sunny side has its appeal as well, even in November when most of the blossoms have gone. The potted olive tree on the left is only two years old. This year it produced some ripe olives. (Yes, Gentle Reader, I did taste one off the tree. Big mistake.)
If you look closely through the branches of the olive tree, you will see an image of Our Lady of Guadalupe gazing down upon it all.
My November garden is looking a little ragged these days. The leaves on the sedum, plumbago, and vitex are fading. At the same time, there are bright spots. The cherry sage is in bloom, and the roses are still providing a few offerings. The holly berries have turned a brilliant orange-red. I will rely on them to cheer me through the winter.
When I went out to survey the fading glory, one perfect rose caught my eye. I gave it to my husband.
It occurs to me that splendor can come in a single package.
“Listen to me, my faithful children, and blossom like a rose growing by a stream of water.
“Send out fragrance like incense, and put forth blossoms like a lily. Scatter the fragrance, and sing a hymn of praise; bless the Lord for all his works.” (Sir. 39:13-14, NRSV Catholic Ed.)
I love this passage from the book of Sirach. God seems to be saying that I can be more than I am in the present moment, more than I can desire or even imagine. This resonates in my heart, and I believe it is true. I want to be like the rose or the lily that gives off a lovely fragrance to the world. I want my life to be a hymn of praise that blesses the Lord who made me and who sustains my life.
At the same time, I am aging. I see an old woman in the mirror. I am not as strong as I used to be. There are more years behind me than before me. Yet my desire to become something more is as strong and vigorous as if I were a young woman with my whole life ahead of me.
St. Therese of Lisieux wanted to be a saint, and at the same time, she was realistic about her limitations and her situation. She didn’t think she was made of the stuff of great saints (although it turned she was), but she believed God would not have given her the desire to become a saint unless it was possible for her to achieve that goal.
I can’t compare myself to St. Therese, but I may still have something beautiful to offer to the world. I may still have some unopened petals, but in order for them to open, I need to remain near the stream of running water. For me, that stream is the mysterious life that flows from the opened side of the Savior, from the side of the one who gave his life for me so I could have life, so I could be life in myself and for others.
At the end of my life on earth, when my last petal has fallen to the ground, I hope to enter into a greater life, an eternal life with the Lord who has loved me so dearly in this earthly life of preparation. I look forward to being with him forever in that abundant life – ever fresh, ever radiant, ever blessed.
More than a couple of decades ago, a neighbor took some cuttings from some sedum plants that were potted on the White House grounds in Washington, DC. (I won’t say which neighbor took them, and I won’t say which president was in office.) My neighbor secreted the cuttings in her suitcase and planted them in pots when she came home a week later. They thrived, and they continue to thrive in her garden until this day. The plants that I grew from the cuttings she gave me are thriving as well. The ones pictured above with the light pink blossoms are descendants from my neighbor’s original cuttings. This year, I added the rust-colored variety from a local nursery. It’s nice to have plants that come into bloom late in the season.
In another part of the garden, the purple cloud bush has burst into full bloom in response to the monsoon rains.
It’s the rock roses, however, that take the prize for the cheeriest late-season bloomers.
Contemplation Garden 