Hope for Spring Daffodils

Today I heard a talk about the history of bulbs in the garden. Through ancient Greek mythology, tales were told of bulbs springing to life after disaster, blooms rising up from the storm of defeat. As I sat there and waited to give my short report  - specifically about daffodils  - I could not help but agree with the historical musings. Yes, bulbs wait in the cold of winter, push through frozen ground, and amaze and delight us with their fortitude and color. Just when you think winter will never leave, that spring will never come, you look outside and dancing yellow faces are waving to you, beckoning you outside to welcome spring.

It's just so hard to wait. It's just so hard to face the cold of winter. You work, toil, fertilize, nurture...and then you wait. Uncertain and unsure about so much. Did I plant deeply enough? Did I order the right variety for my climate? Did I work and prepare the ground enough? Will the pests leave the bulbs alone long enough to burst through the outer shell and send green life out to the world? Will I see blooms? Will I smell the lingering aroma? Will my daffodils flourish?

Over the last four years, thousands of daffodils have been planted in my neighborhood to benefit research for specific causes. Every year more and more bulbs are planted. And every year, those of us who are diligent in the plantings, think about those bulbs this time of year.

We plan ahead.

This is the time to fertilize.  Use a low-nitrogen all purpose fertilizer to stimulate bulb growth. Bulbs will grow underground until the temperature reaches 40 degrees.
This is the time to purchase new bulbs.  Search for varieties that have proven successful in your climate. Choose a variety for naturalizing or one variety for mass planting. Groupings are showy!
This is the time to be preparing a new bed, free from tree roots and red clay. Not your favorite task, but as the temperature continues to drop, you will be glad you did the hard work when the weather was friendly. A man with a strong back sure comes in handy!

Admittedly, the most diligent gardener can experience failure. Improper planting, rodents, bad bulbs - these are just a few of the  hazards always faced. But we plod on. We do everything in our power to make the blooming time one of success. And we hold on to hope. Hope that spring will surely come and bring with it the results of hard work, diligent effort, and the gifts of Creation for giving us a garden in which to play. Who would want to miss any of it?

An Offering of Grace

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

Hi Friends of The Olive Branch,

I am launching a new blog site and would love for you to follow along: trust me, it's simple. Just click on the link below and it will take you to the new site. Once you get there, sign up to follow in the box on the top right hand side.

While I will continue to write on both sites, Marcia Gaddis...On the Grief Journey will get most of my attention until it is up and running. Thanks for supporting and reading...and following!

http://marciagaddis.blogspot.com/2012/09/today-is-new-day.html#comment-formMarcia Gaddis...on the Grief Journey

 

 Today's Post on Marcia Gaddis...on the Grief Journey

 "The tears...streamed down, 

and I let them flow as freely as they would, 

making of them a pillow for my heart...on them it rested."

Augustine

Confessions 1X,12

 The funeral is over. The relatives are gone.The flowers have been given away in small bunches. The remnants of cakes and casseroles are all that remain. There are piles of cards and letters...some are opened, some are waiting. You open your eyes and everything looks different. The world is a new color of gray and nothing feels right. And then you remember - it all comes flooding over you.

You try to remember what day it is. Everything seems too quiet. There is a hush in your home and in your heart.  You look outside and even the birds are silent on this day. But there is something inside of you that wants to hear the birds sing. There is something inside of you that strains to hear the faintest chirp. Anything that would bring you back to the way it was...before. When life was normal.

A few days after my daughter's service, I stood at the coffeepot next to my husband and waited for the coffee to brew. We stood there, watching the drip of the morning elixer and he whispered, "Would you like to go to the recycling center with me today?" I knew then we would survive. And I laughed that the mere thought of some task so utilitarian could be such an offering of grace.

It is the offering of grace we mourners so desire. It is the offering of grace that reaches down into our soul, soothes us, calms us with the simple tasks of daily life. I suppose they are different for each grief-stricken heart. But when hearts are linked together, the offering and the acceptance are always compatible. You know what I need. You offer. I accept:

                                      a visit on the front steps,
                                                        watching a child learn to ride a bicycle.
 
                                a hand-picked bouquet from your garden,
                                                      delivered hand-to-hand, eye-to-eye

                                             a linen handkerchief

                                                                    a note in the mailbox

Maybe your heart is linked to someone today who needs a simple offering of grace. Look around you. What will your offering be for the one whose heart is resting on a pillow of tears?

Visit My New Blog

Hi Friends of The Olive Branch,

I am launching a new blog site and would love for you to follow along: trust me, it's simple. Just click on the link below and it will take you to the new site. Once you get there, sign up to follow in the box on the top right hand side.

While I will continue to write on both sites, Marcia Gaddis...On the Grief Journey will get most of my attention until it is up and running. Thanks for supporting and reading...and following!

http://marciagaddis.blogspot.com/2012/09/today-is-new-day.html#comment-formMarcia Gaddis...on the Grief Journey

Weed Control

It's funny how weeds love to grow when the temperatures soar.

For a while you hardly notice them. They  sneak in and grow along with the grass. Then they take off. You can recognize them because they shoot up with an attitude. They spread like wild fire, creeping through the ground, and before you know it, they have choked out the good grass.

You must stop the choking. You must take action and try to save the good grass. The directions on the container of weed killer say to treat weeds during the growing season. Spray the weeds while they are growing and they will be stopped. Last week I did just that. I sprayed with a vengeance— nutgrass, crabgrass, and a multitude of "other" grasses that do not belong in my lawn. Each day now, I celebrate a little more of the yellowing and wilting of the invaders.

By contrast, there is a parable in the Bible where Jesus talks to the disciples about weeds and wheat. The farmer sows the wheat and while he is sleeping, a villain comes in and sows weeds to grow up with the wheat. The workers ask the farmer if they should pull up the weeds, but the farmer says to let the weeds grow with the wheat, that he alone will separate the two when it is time for the harvest, keeping the wheat and burning the weeds forever. (Matthew 13)

The lesson from the parable reminds me that for this present moment, I am that farmer. Although gratefully I am not to judge,  I am to distinguish between the weeds and wheat—the good and the bad in my life. I am to control the invasive and harmful things that want to discourage and destroy me. I have to be constantly on the lookout for them. And I am to cultivate the good with nourishment and attention. Oh, it's hard work. And sometimes we get weary and just want to ignore those things in our lives that seek to invade and destroy. But until that final harvest comes that is spoken of in Matthew, we must work the fields— and wait—and trust. We must educate ourselves and know the difference between good and bad - truth and lies. We must know how to vote, what to stand for, and where to draw the line.

Where are you celebrating "the wilting of the invaders" in your life?

The Unforced Rhythm of Grace

The goal I seem to accomplish when traveling is to unabashedly wear myself out. There is so much to be done in so little time. I take it on myself to go on beach walks and long bike rides after playing a round of golf. I hike, poke through markets, and  catch up on reading late into the night or talking over late night decaf. It's all good. I wouldn't change a thing—except for the exhaustion I feel when I'm finally home. I look at my calendar and say, "How can I do this to myself?" I promise to never exhaust myself again, and attack my calendar with a machete, slashing all unnecessary events. It takes a few days  of atmospheric change to make the transition, but rest comes. I've settled myself back into my quiet routine.  While I like my busy traveling, I also like my routine.

Routine is a good thing—a prescribed course of action followed regularly.  Over and over.  It is actually very restful and productive to be part of a routine. Watch an out-of-sorts toddler who has missed his nap. Watch an older person who has to leave his home for a hospital stay. Watch me on vacation! In every example, you find disruption, chaos, and ultimately melt-down. I like best the way the toddler handles it—he has a crying fit.

But the creative side of me wants to argue, "But too much routine is boring. I don't want to do the same thing—routinely—day after day. The writer Amy Tan once said, "You have to be displaced from what's comfortable and routine, and then you get to see things with fresh eyes, with new eyes." And I love what Emerson said about routine, “So much of our time is spent in preparation, so much in routine, and so much in retrospect, that the amount of each person's genius is confined to a very few hours.”

Well, that explains it. That explains why my "genius" is so underdeveloped. I spend my days preparing, thinking, and keeping my safe routine. It explains why seeing with fresh eyes can plant new ideas that grow creativity. Yes, even on the busiest of days. And yet, in my routine, I stumble upon the solution. I stumble upon another quote that restores me, settles me, and ignites the creativity in my soul. In Matthew 11:28-30 (The Message), Jesus said, "Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you'll recover your life. I'll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won't lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you'll learn to live freely and lightly."

Ah, to learn the unforced rhythms of grace.

The Thinking Window

Everyone has a "thinking window." It's where your mind goes when it's searching for something—a word, a solution, a fresh idea, truth. It's where you sort and toss and  prioritize. It's where you remember and reconsider and refresh. You look through your thinking window to the other side and see something from a different perspective. All new.

I can't look out just any window and think. I wish I could because in the last month I could have uncovered a wealth of new images looking at the Pacific, the Atlantic, and the Gulf of Mexico. I could have heightened my perspective looking up to Mt. Ranier, Whiteside Mountain, and the Blue Ridge Mountains. If travel enabled new ideas to morph into words, I would have a lifetime reserve.

I love the way Anne Lamott talks about writers and their work. In Bird by Bird she says,

         “Hope is a revolutionary patience for writers.  Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come.  You wait and watch and work: you don’t give up.”

Ideas will come—once I settle myself again—at my thinking window. I want to believe the sights I have seen and the beauty I have witnessed will over time come together as fresh fodder for the written word. Let them sink in and blend and multiply and then reinvent themselves, bursting forth in new thoughts and ranges of colors.

The Apostle Paul also gives wisdom to those who search. He offers a glimpse into a future where believers will find completion in God alone. Until then we will always be searching, looking through our own window of thought, trying our best to figure things out. Paul wrote to people in a big city where life was busy and distractions were many—not unlike today, just 2000 years later saying, "Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known." (1 Corinthians13:12 NIV)

Probably the first thing you do each morning is look out a window. Maybe you look for a ray of sunshine, a glimmer of hope, meaning to a dream, or wisdom for a big decision. Take some time at that window, allowing some "revolutionary patience" to still your heart and fill your senses with the wonders of a hoping creation.

We can learn at our thinking window. Dawn will come.

                       

 Trail of Tears...And Uncertainty

The older I get, the more I love home. 

I have been away for two weeks, attending the Blue Ridge Mountains Christian Writers Conference in Asheville, NC. I stopped on the way home and visited friends who opened doors to their mountain homes, offering rest and respite and transition from four days of attending classes, listening to speakers, and thinking more than I normally think. It is home, though, where I reconnect, renew, and refresh my mind. As I water the plants and fill the bird feeder, everything somehow gets sorted and prioritized in my mind.  It is home where I reflect and sort and plan for another year of writing.

            This was my third year to attend, and I felt more comfortable when the routine question was asked, “What do you write?” I experimented with safe answers such as “I write non-fiction—the daily life kind of stuff—gardening, relationships, personal struggle." Or “I write memoir." That sounded vague enough without delving into my personal, painful story. Or, if I was feeling transparent, I said, “I write about death and grief—life and living.” This year, I mastered the "elevator pitch" by succinctly saying, "I published When God Comes Near in 2010, writing about my faith journey during the illness and death of my daughter. Now, I am writing a book about grief—good grief." I admit, it's not as exciting as a thriller mystery, or a trendy cookbook, but I write what I know.

            The drive to Asheville is pretty spectacular.  Once you get out of Atlanta, you head north to the foothills of the Blue Ridge.  Then as you wind further north, you enter a cloud of misty green. I returned home through those magnificent mountains with misty thoughts of my own mountains to climb as a writer. I remembered the Cherokee nation, forced against their will to leave a land they loved and to traverse through famine and hardship to some unknown territory that would become their new home over time. The journey itself became known as "The Trail of Tears" or, as a direct translation from Cherokee, "The Trail Where They Cried.” In one of the saddest episodes of our country’s history where over 4000 people died, lives were torn apart, displaced, and left to their tears on a trail to uncertainty.

            There is a legend that says an Indian chief prayed for comfort for the grieving mothers who were losing their children to death and starvation on the trail.  Following his prayer, a white rose began to spring up every time a tear fell to the earth.   

Supposedly, to this day, the Cherokee Rose, my very own Georgia state flower, still blooms along the Trail of Tears—life and beauty rising out of pain and sorrow. 

            I am learning that each of us has our own trail of tears—our own trail of uncertainty. If you tell me you do not, I won't believe you.  All who are in touch with life have been displaced by something—emotionally, physically, socially, or spiritually.  We have been forced to travel a trail of uncertainty. And the legend rings true—when tears are spilled and prayers are offered, something good happens in the midst of sorrow. A flower blooms on the road of sadness.

            "How can good come from pain?" we continue to ask. One thing I learned at the writer's conference was that everyone has a unique story to tell.  Some are true and some are imagined. Some are being developed. Some are being filed away and some, regrettably, thrown away. But all good stories should offer some kind of reconciliation to the reader. Name the problem and offer a solution. Change the reader.

            The Cherokee tribe did not get to the Oklahoma territory overnight. There was no GPS dotted with five star hotels and Starbucks, but there was a chief who sought a higher source for help. And following the little signs of life that bloomed encouragement along the way, the travelers stuck with their journey and learned new ways to live. They told their stories to their children with memories of a past life and with hope for the new territory to come.  As a writer, I will be doing just that—seeking help from above, looking for the signs of encouragement along the way, and learning new ways to live. I will remember the past and point to the future. Maybe I, too, will change the reader.