Planting a garden

I don't know when I got the attitude that I should just fall into love, or that love should come to me easily. I have no idea how I gained the belief that I deserved it, or that beauty comes without effort. Yeah, there is all of that "lilies of the valley" shit that Jesus said. But Jesus was not talking about the lilies getting esoteric happiness -- he promised that they would be fed and kept alive. That's a nice promise, but I seem to have been counting on God for more.

The side garden, this year, looked like hard packed Texan soil. After a spring of rain following rain, some of the normally finicky perennials thrived. My hydrangea have never been more lush or confident. But the side garden seemed to vomit back every seed. None of the 50 sunflower seeds took root, only three of the zinnias. Basically, we had a snazzy edge of bricks around nothing.

Yesterday I bought thirteen quart plants. This morning, I dug and dug and broke up the dirt. My back ached and I had to take breaks, sitting on the stoop, even though the day was mild and breezy. This morning, I bought plant food and sweet peat to spread as mulch among the phlox and coreopsis. And tonight, it looks beautiful. Or certainly is leaning more towards beauty than it was twenty-four hours ago.

It took effort. It took planning. It took time. I had to get a little dirty. I had to be willing to create holes -- spaces --then fill them up. I had to feed the plants, water the plants, be gentle and tender with the transplants. My toenails are black with mulch. I did not deserve this beauty. I did not wait for this beauty to come to me. I did not get angry when nothing bloomed out of nothingness. Nor wait for something to sprout out of a void.

How interesting it is that our hands teach us what our minds forget. How our aching backs remind us of the goodness that springs from good work. Today I planted a garden. Tomorrow, maybe, I will be more open to digging up my dry thoughts about how love comes, stays and takes root.