for Joi Sharp
In the garden of wisdom,
she did not step in as head gardener.
Instead, she tended her own planting.
She showed me how to weed
the stories we tell ourselves,
how inner spaciousness
is the richest soil for growth.
She did not do the tilling for me.
Inquiry became my hoe.
She offered questions free
as rain water.
And when it was time to sow,
from her own rows she gathered seeds.
She did not do the planting.
She handed the seeds to me.
Posts Tagged ‘garden’
The Teacher
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged garden, Joi Sharp, learning, student, teacher on February 21, 2024| 6 Comments »
Autumn in the Garden
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged beauty, garden, persistence, snapdragon on October 12, 2023| 6 Comments »
Though the garden wears mostly brown leaves
and dried vines, though the stems
of the sunflowers are brittle and broken and bent,
though frost has taken nearly every living thing,
the snapdragons still bloom, scarlet flags of persistence,
their heads deep red, their petals still soft,
and I know it won’t last forever,
but for now, they resist what is cold, what is dark,
and I, while I can, I want to be snapdragon,
want to bring to this life all the beauty I can muster,
even when it’s dire, and give it all away.
Rebuilding
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged basil, cooking, garden, pesto on September 14, 2023| 12 Comments »
Perhaps it is no Eiffel Tower,
no theory of relativity, no treatise
on law or philosophy of man,
but I did it, I constructed
the perfect recipe to turn fifteen cups
of fresh basil into a rich and delicate pesto,
the kind of pesto that makes fettucine
grateful to arrive naked to a plate
so that it might swim in such green.
The kind of pesto that makes me want
to eat it from a bowl with a cracker.
God knows I have failed before—
made it too lemony, too garlicky,
too salty, too thin. But this pesto—
built with dry roasted almonds
and lemon zest and parmesan cheese—
this pesto carries the taste
of every word I whispered
into the plants as they grew—
In each bite, I swear I taste the words,
“That’s right, you can do it.”
Despite drought. Despite frost.
Despite hail. Despite heat.
God, this pesto tastes like fruition,
like life itself triumphant.
It tastes like robust green luck.
I savor each bite, strong and bright,
I will it into my being.
Slower
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged eggplant, garden, slowness on August 10, 2023| 6 Comments »
They are beautiful, the Japanese eggplant,
dangling beneath wide fringed leaves.
I love the way I need to search for them,
how they curl and swirl like amethyst earrings,
how they hide in surprise in the low shade.
I love the way they tangle in the basket,
how they refuse to lie flat on the grill.
Some things defy a linear process,
require me to go slow, to take note.
All afternoon, I move slower.
Not once do I wish it were any other way.
One Instruction
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged garden, humility, nasturtium, teaching on July 22, 2023| 4 Comments »
not here to teach me
but to bring beauty
this red nasturtium
After a Difficult Day
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged becoming, garden, self-care on July 19, 2023| 8 Comments »
I go to the garden
and snip the dead blooms
and talk to the beans
and stake the tall stalks
of blue delphiniums.
I plunge my hands
in the dirt to pull weeds
and pull spinach into my mouth.
In an hour, I am wholly new.
But to remember who I am,
five minutes will do.
After a Rogue Hard Frost in Late June
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged frost, garden, resilience, spinach on June 25, 2023| 2 Comments »
The usual suspects wilt and die.
Basil, of course, and beans. Potatoes.
Zinnias. Nasturtiums. Marigolds.
I find myself staring at the beet greens,
spinach, and arugula, marveling
at how they thrive, impervious to cold.
I have a craving for resilience.
I pull the dark leaves to my mouth,
devour the green communion.
It tastes like survival, so bitter, so bright.
In Search
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged beauty, garden, grief on June 5, 2023| 10 Comments »
We must go in search of enchantment.
René Magritte, “Surrealism in the Sunshine”
And so, my heart,
raw and torn,
went to the garden
and bid its hands
to dig in the soil
and plant zinnias,
lemon thyme, basil,
and osteopermum.
And what hurt still hurt—
but an hour later,
the heart emerged
raw and torn and
grateful for beauty.
All day, it remembered
the orange and purple petals,
the green scent of thyme,
the zinnias, their blossoms
so exuberant, the centers
surrounded by stars.
On Mother’s Day
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged beauty, daughter, garden, mother, mother's day, work on May 14, 2023| 2 Comments »
for Vivian
She with the shovel,
I with the rake,
we move across
the garden row
clearing and weeding
and tilling the soil—
how hard it is,
how heavy, and
how simple,
this essential work—
preparing for beauty
together.
On the Anniversary of My Father’s Death, I Go to the Shakespeare Garden
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged begonia, father, flower, garden, loss, love, san francisco on November 22, 2022| 10 Comments »
A whole garden of begonias
blesses me this day,
this double-edged day
in which I find myself
in a long and generous park
with my husband and daughter,
and I also find myself
in a small room one year ago
when I last heard your voice,
when I last felt you squeeze my hand.
How strange and honest it is,
this living in two days at once.
Why was I drawn to walk
to this unfamiliar place
where thousands of white
and red begonias bloom,
undeterred by longer nights,
by shade?
You loved this flower.
For you, every flower,
no matter its real name,
was begonia.
I meet the coincidence
as if it’s a generous sign
you still guide me
in ways I do not understand.
Each begonia petal is a key
to pick the locks of my rational mind.
Today, the doors of love
are visible everywhere.
I open them every time
and all the world’s begonia.