Thursday, March 7, 2013

March 7, 2013

I started working in the garden again. My sleeping rose garden looks more like fields stripped down to their essence than a garden; in its washed muted hues of drab taupe and brutal with winter.  But today, a strong bright sun is pouring down, making me squint in its brightness, as it washes me clean and fills my soul with gladness and forgiveness.

And thus, I cleaned, and worked the soil, and pruned and cut dead stems and old stalks down to the ground, making way for the new shoots that are already emerging from the crown—the columbine, candytuft, pearly-everlasting and the lilies.

The Mourning Doves are starting to engage in their courtship rituals, filling the air with mystery and bonding sacraments; wing flaps, head dips and the intricacy of a song that's more to me the spirit of a lament than anything else.

I want to capture this feathery weeping in the palm of my hands, but it runs rampant in the hands of the wind instead. It flickers—that song. And it mutates; it scurry on the ground like the pearls of a shattered necklace, as the sun, too, shimmers and twinkle through naked branches in cobalt hues stolen from the skies.

The skies.... I lift my face to it and reach my arms out wide. I too, like the birds, have grown wings on my back. "Are you up there... are you?" In my heart. In my soul. In my very being You are.

I wish to be filled with overflowing peace, to have my very self wiped clean, refreshed, revived with the pure joy of the Spirit. I pray for the wounds of my heart to be healed and for those who had hurt me... forget forget; move on... but it's not easy.

The Mourning Dove's flapping/gladding flight brings me back from my reveries just in time to realize that it is 1:30 pm, and I am exactly where I wish to be, doing that what I love to do.

I am blessed.

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