My Garden Tells a Story

My garden tells a story.

A story of a busy summer spent near and far where I had to choose

… what to tend and what to let go

… what to nurture and what to neglect.

After every trip, I’d look down from my bedroom window at my overgrown garden. Tall, lush, green. The deceptive markers of health. But there was no fruit. Just weeds.

Did I choose wisely? Can’t we do it all, have it all?

But fruit ripened the places I watered - in people and experiences, moments and memories. I grew things more satisfying than tomatoes this summer.

I’ve avoided my garden all summer. I’ve not gone back there once since May. I dread reclaiming the beds. I’m not even sure where to begin. One weed at a time seems hopeless and daunting, but isn’t that true of hard things we need to face?

So, today I went to see. That’s all. Seeing it up close was my first weed to pull.

And much to my surprise, in the middle of my garden of neglect, there was some fruit growing beneath all the weeds.

Isn’t that true of hard things we need to face? We think nothing good can grow, but sometimes, buried among the weeds, there is some fruit from something we planted long ago. If we’re courageous enough to look. If we’re willing to start with just one weed.

My garden tells a story.

Or maybe two or even three.