The Garden of You

This morning, my deck

This morning, my deck

Imagine if you will, dear one, dear one and all, that you are sent to manifest something unique and quite vital to the world. You arrive as rich seeded earth, landing in just the right geographic location to support your eventual yield. The trees and the flowers and the shrubs in this area respond perfectly to your soil, the climate supports what your seeds will send forth. The birds who nest here and those that just pass through on their migratory flights need just what will rise from your depths.

Your mission here, then, is this: to allow what is inside you to come forth naturally and without concern for the pattern your greenery makes on the dirt or the color of your fruit. Let judgment or comparison be themselves trespassers in your garden. You will learn to recognize what is weed and what your true crop is to be. You’ll learn to pluck out the unwanted; tension and fear and all that which prevents your flowering and takes up space in your earth. You will learn to lift your leaves toward the sun, to soak in each precious rain, to sink your roots deep into the hot earth and allow the bounty of yourself to thrive. You will learn to surrender and watch your garden grow in healthy ways.

Let your gifts root well and blossom and send new seeds out into the world, but do not be concerned about where they travel. Do not try to follow them; rather release them to Mother Wind and let them find their own way.

Your landscape, your offerings will change; the nature of your soil will evolve in a dance with the seasons over years and you will learn to love the worms that do their deep work tirelessly, turning, turning, creating more from enough and making space for all that must come forth. You will learn to let your heavier minerals and salts sink toward the core of this earth as your elements merge with her, become part of her so none can say where or when you were not here, or if there ever was a time or place that you did not belong to.

You will draw strength from these deep places, your evolving layers will grow the alchemy of all that is alive within you as roots feed shoots upward into stems, upward into leaves and wild flowers, branches, nesting spots for creatures of every glorious kind. And what lifts toward the sun, what drinks in the rain and sends glorious flowering plumes of scented energies up and out into the heavens, and what holds deep in the earth, what roots and sustains, will be the one continuum of Spirit, expressed through blooming, unique you as a gift from God to the garden of all humankind.

Melinda Coppola

Not Writing

Doing anything to avoid writing is the hardest work, working these twin dwellings; body and house. Each provides chores; endless spin cycles of exercise, rest, toil, despair. I even find myself talking to my father, asking him aloud what it was like to die, and does he watch me not writing, think me lazy as weeds grow in the cracks of the driveway, or has he seen my now-husband and does he think well of him?

It’s not the finding truth but distilling it that’s hardest. Deep and precious observations are thrust into pockets for later. They almost know, as I do, that the laundry will eat them whole. Fingers of poems drop blithely into the mirepoix, the pre-soup du jour, where they only nourish more not-writing, as if the not was a fully formed person who looks just like me. Gemini twin, the not-writer, not-artist, not teaching not singing not tending the gardens of herbs and chapters and dreams. The multi-hued shapes and voices and shadows of brilliance that long to be streaming live….those are sprinkled with baking soda and water and buffed clean away.

I am lightly amused to watch my feet running my body away from the collage not created by the non-writing not-artist. Unrequited love; the fingers and the keys, pen and paper, images and ghosts of Muses past, present, future, clamor for equal time.  Some jealous few demand complete attention to their gestation, commitment to their nurture. I abort them blithely. Swirling late spring fills my pockets and I empty them, turn quietly towards home.

-Melinda Coppola