To find a patch of land and make it yours and then give it away. That’s love.
Why do we garden? It is a testament. It is husbandry—I wish there were a word like this that didn’t have husband in it. Wifery, maybe.
We know we are impermanent. We know we pass. But the land, the land. If w are wise in our use of it. If we love it with all our hearts, it will last and last. We bequeath our love to the next generation. We create beauty and know it is only borrowed beauty.
I love to work in my garden. I just about kill myself some days raking, clipping, digging, rearranging and looking. I talk to my birds—Joe the towhee, chickadee dee dee, the song sparrow, the robin. I exult.
This is not a perfect garden, this is mine. It is a little ramshackle, helter skelter. It feeds my soul. It makes me happy. It is the outward sign of an inner grace which has been gifted to me by who knows who, maybe myself. It’s my gift to me.