Gardening in the Dark
For Maritza and Eric
We are gardening in the dark,
Sinking our shovels into dirt
we can barely see, sinking
our feet into loam littered with the detritus
of winter gardens gone
to seed, lifted
Shovel by shovel into the night wind,
seeds scattering, roots ripped,
turning, turning
the soil over
On itself,
Turning over.
We are gardening in the dark,
Taking out what once was
And getting it ready
for we don’t know what
will grow, trusting something
will flourish
When the sun rises again.
Note: The ancient Greeks said that humans could not look upon the true face of a god without being destroyed. Sometimes it seems like that’s true when God reveals such a powerful, incomprehensible nature — death, suffering, even beauty — that I’m struck dumb, small and helpless. The refrain that goes through my head is, “I don’t understand.” Many things have been this difficult face of God for me. September 11, 2001, the wildfires of 2005, the deaths of people I love, losses. All I can do at those times is FEEL — and sink my hands into the earth, and garden.
I began gardening when my mother died. I gardened on 9/11 and the weeks that followed. I gardened through my worst loss of all. And tonight I gardened in the dark, in the company of a rogue raccoon who sat in my apricot tree and ate all my favorite fruit. I gardened to to reconnect with the earth, in honor my friend Maritza, an amazing gardener and kind friend, who has suffered long and hard, and in honor of her husband Eric, who has supported her all the way to the end.
Nature Explorer 