Gift of the Garden, 2021

Gift of the Garden

Lost Time

On many an idle day I have grieved over lost time,

but it is never lost, O God.  You have taken every moment of my life in Your own hands. 

Hidden in the heart of things, You are nourishing seeds into sprouts, buds into blossoms,

And ripening flowers into fruitfulness. 

I was tired and sleeping on my idle bed and imagined all work had ceased.

In the morning I awoke and found my garden full with wonders of flowers.

Rabindranath Tagore

Last fall the pandemic was still in full force. Our garden had become a refuge of safety and well-being during that time.  The quarantining and isolation had created an appreciation for things we tend to take for granted.  As the old adage has it, it was time to stop and smell the roses.  In the last days of summer a new bud appeared on one of our rose bushes.  By early fall it had begun to bloom into the most beautiful rose I can recall.  It was a morning ritual to go into the garden and bid her “Good day, Rose.”  In the evening as she sat with poise, she was told; “Goodnight and thank you Rose for another day of your splendor.”   As the weather became colder, she persevered, holding her shape and beauty.  The sun had begun to shift in the sky and the days became shorter.   A few weeks later it was November and finally the serious frosts and freezing began.  Then one morning she began to fade and droop.  It was a moving experience, watching the tapestry and stages of life unfold.  The morning ritual became a different kind as I looked down at all the fallen petals laying at her base.  Months later winter had set in, whenever I walked into the barren garden my eyes still glanced over with fond memories of her majestic presence.  I thought of the coming of spring and wondered what new form will come when her source sends out new blooms as things begin to awaken from winter.

A year later, and in her exact spot has come this fragrant, elegant, beauty, the image of her predecessor.  Only the new Rose carries a different color that is all her own.  It is now early November, with the cold arriving, and the cycle of life is once again in play.