Silence, Secret Easter Garden

Silence, Secret Easter Garden

Langley in the Secret Garden at former College of Preachers

“What will your secret garden look like? The point is to begin slowing your life and focusing your attention. Listen, and in the quiet, you will hear the direction of your heart. The garden of silence is always there for us, patiently waiting.” —Anne D. LeClaire, Listening Below the Noise: The Transformative Power of Silence (Harper Perennial, 2009).

One of my favorite young adult novels is The Secret Garden by the American-English author Frances Eliza Hodgson Burnett, who also wrote Little Lord Fauntleroy and A Little Princess. The Secret Garden tells the story of an unloved ten-year-old English girl who, after her parents die, is sent to live with her grieving uncle in his remote country home on the bleak moors of Yorkshire. Her unhappiness, aloneness, and the heartache and isolation of those around her heal when she begins caring for and restoring a secret garden on the manor house grounds.

I watched the 1993 British film starring Maggie Smith with my daughter and granddaughters, and later saw the play with a granddaughter. This story resonates with the child within us, the creative part of us—the side we so quickly abandon for more pressing matters, which is a significant connection to the divine within us.

The Secret Garden also shows how nature’s sounds, smells, and sights can quiet and calm the grownup “wounded committee” in our heads—and heal and transform our inner child. We all should have a secret garden, a place to gently reconnect with the God within ourselves and the divine in each other. It is a safe place where the Spirit’s presence is more easily felt, as Psalm 32:7 says: “You are a hiding place for me; you preserve me from trouble; you surround me with glad cries of deliverance.”

Talking about our secret garden, our hiding place—often a place of silence—can be an opening to the divine within spiritual direction.

So many friends planted new gardens during the pandemic. Nurseries and garden centers were thriving. As we continue to plant and watch them grow, let us also contemplate our own secret garden, where a very holy part of us lives and grows. 

Anne Gornatti’s Secret Garden

Joanna. Joannaseibert.com. https://www.joannaseibert.com/

Celtic Spirituality and Nature

Celtic Spirituality and Nature.

Sunset Arkansas River Trail Stuart Hoke

"There is no creature on Earth”

There is no life in the sea

But proclaims your goodness.

There is no bird on the wing

There is no star in the sky

There is nothing beneath the sun

But is full of your blessing.

Lighten my understanding

Of your presence all around, O Christ

Kindle my will

      to be caring for Creation."—Phillip Newell, "Wednesday Morning" in Celtic Prayers from Iona: The Heart of Celtic Spirituality (Paulist Press, 1997).

The late Native American producer and musician Jim Wilson recorded the chirping of crickets at regular and slowed-down speeds, which is said to match "the average life span of humans." In the slowed-down version, the crickets seem to sing alleluias. (https://youtu.be/jk5gibBg-4g)  

It is an impressive sound of praise from nature. Unfortunately, to my knowledge, no one else has reproduced the sound in a way that allows it to be manipulated as such. Nevertheless, I often listen to the crickets' recording, hearing an angelic chorus outside in the night sky. 

There is no doubt that birds, especially in the early morning, seem to sing a new oratorio to Creation each day as the sun rises.

The stars at night are like fireworks from millions of miles away, reminding us of a spectacle beyond our comprehension.

The waves in the ocean are like a percussion instrument that keeps us attuned to Creation's steady, constant heartbeat—sometimes crashing like cymbals, occasionally tinkling softly like a triangle's ring.

 I also hear from so many pet owners that they have experienced unconditional love for the first time from their pets, especially their dogs.

The love and praise of God are all around us, especially in nature. Listen for them.

The pandemic was a time for listening and looking, while the noise and lights outside nature were considerably less. They are returning. Consider that time a respite in our lives, even for brief periods. It was a significant gift at great cost, so treasure each moment, each second, and remember those who gave and are still giving their lives. 

Remember that no matter what we do to stay healthy and safe, hearing the crickets and watching the Milky Way can always calm our bodies and promote well-being.

Song of the Builders –

On a summer morning
I sat down
on a hillside
to think about God –

a worthy pastime.
Near me, I saw
a single cricket;
it was moving the grains of the hillside
 
this way and that way.
How great was its energy,
how humble its effort.
Let us hope
 
it will always be like this,
each of us going on
in our inexplicable ways
building the universe.

–Mary Oliver

InwardOutward.org May 7, 2021

Joanna https://www.joannaseibert.com/

The Joy of Raspberries

                                       THE JOY OF RASPBERRIES

                                         Guest Writer and Artist: Ken Fellows

breakfast treat ken fellows

     Here’s the secret to successful raspberry picking: think like a raspberry. They’re crafty, deceptive, tricky, and shy. Growing in clumps of 5-8, the ripe ones hide behind unripe relatives to avoid detection. Some – usually the biggest and sweetest – grow solitary and obscure, down low, among bushy green leaves and thorny stems. 

Unlike ground-hugging strawberries with their low ‘fruit-to-leaf’ ratio, raspberry plants grow 4–6 feet tall, supported by foliage-dense, crisscrossing, prickly branches. A good picker must lift, pull down, untangle, turn over, separate, and inspect along rows of plants from all angles to retrieve the red-seeded prey.

      In my small raspberry patch, the hunt is further complicated by entangling weeds with leaves and gray-green color identical to those of the berry bushes. They twist around the berry canes, adding even more cover for the elusive red fruit. Unwinding the ubiquitous weeds from the raspberry plants, enough to pull them by their roots, doubles the picking time without increasing the berry yield. It’s maddening. 

     Maine’s mosquitoes provide the berries with another defense. My berry patch supports hordes of them. During the July picking season, green-headed flies join the battle on the fruit’s behalf, so I’m forced to pick in the sweltering midday because the vexing insects are less active then.

When I march into battle under a blazing, humid afternoon sun, armored against airborne enemies, the core of my protection is an airless, black, netted-nylon ‘jacket’ covering my head to waist. The netting covering my face prevents the ingestion of belly berries, a serious drawback. Below, I wear jeans tucked into tall rubber boots. This is not a cool outfit. It’s sweaty, airless, and hot. Head hot. Body hot. Feet hot. Everything hot, hot, hot.

     Of course, I wear a shirt under the mosquito-netting jacket and douse myself with Cutter’s spray repellent. The little buggers still find ways to get through the clothing and the netting, so no picking session is itch-free. My front-yard berry patch sits next to our street, Chauncey Creek Road, and strollers walking by often comment:

         “How lucky for you to have raspberries to pick.”  

          “Oh yes, lots of fun,” I grumble back.

     Forget the impediments: just gathering the berries isn’t all that easy either. It’s a stand-up job where I hold the collection box in one hand – or precariously cradle it on a bent arm – leaving the other hand free to pluck fruit. But there’s a problem; I can become so engrossed in the search-and-snatch maneuvers that a partly filled box in my non-picking hand is forgotten, tips downward, and half an hour’s work scatters to the ground, irretrievably lost in the thicket. It’s not good if someone is walking by at that moment. I don’t mutter; I explode in a stream of blue language I otherwise use only in front of my exasperating computer.  

     And have I mentioned the mental stressors of raspberry picking? Deep red berries are the object of the hunt. Purple ones are overripe and unusable; yellow-orange to orange-pink ones are tasteless and must wait for the next picking. But what about those turning just faintly purple—or those turning ‘early red’? Pick now or later? Can I pick again in 2 days? Not if it’s raining or if I’ll be busy or away. Almost every picking minute, crucial, stressful decisions must be made.

     If everyone knew the effort involved and the mental toll, they might understand why a commercial pint of raspberries is so expensive.

     There are rewards for hours and hours of berry tending: raspberry shortcakes, pies, and muffins; berries on cereal; and freezer jam, which takes raspberry flavor to a higher level. On a stormy, cold winter’s morning, raspberry jam on warm toast makes life bearable. So I’ll keep fussing with the plants … trimming, fertilizing, rototilling, watering, and battling insects and weeds. And I’ll keep picking, with all its frustrations and hardships. I’ve been doing it for 40 years. I know the price and am willing to pay. I remain ever thankful for the bounty. 

Ken Fellows

Joanna Seibert joannaseibert.com