The colors of the garden is that of a staunch and burly chromatic nonsense. It is the same spectral color of the skies; which this morning are low and heavy with early rain. I imagine that from the garden floors leap this invisible joy; wet and supple, which stretches and swells and spread throughout the entire garden. This is only perceive by the natural world, and perhaps, also by those with heart opened to the infinite love and thoughtfulness of a powerful and sympathetic God; the God of creation, who while fashioning each tree and shrub and flower had us on his mind.
And thus, I see it too—this happiness with which each plant and each tree shrouds themselves with on rainy days. And I see they're playing dressing up too. As in readiness to step into some regal ballroom. Because, well, they're dressed up in itty bitty sparkling stars made out of water, and they're wearing necklaces adorned in jewels of perfect spherical rain drops and globular trinkets and charms so pure and dazzling, my heart leaps with joy.
Isn't this delightfulness; this pleasure flourishing in the soul, precisely what I had wished for years and years? To be able to stay home; having not the need to go out into the world to make my living in an office cubicle, wishing throughout my days I could be free. Free to be here, just where I am today?
And why is my heart anxious then? Why am I distress by the external? And how ungrateful the heart is; how deaf our ears to the voice of our heavenly Father when He speaks to us in the hour of need.
"Look at the birds"—He says. Have they not fear of what tomorrow have reserved for them? If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe me, or feed me?
I have so many things I wish to write; so many things to say, but the words come on as ghosts, fragments, intangible wisps. I am patient.