I began the process of putting the garden to bed yesterday.
The process of cutting down perennials, and uprooting annuals. Of planting the bulbs to bloom in spring, and putting away the garden decorations. The process of ending this cycle of the garden's life. Stopping and considering where things are, and how they have fared, and might that bleeding heart look better over there, and might I move those hosta's forward, and what if I move the tiger lily that is marginal in this growth zone, but has been blooming beautifully these last five years, might then it die?
Some years ago, I was volunteering in palliative care. I sat with a particular woman, who proudly displayed pictures of her gardens, where most displayed pictures of their families. And we talked about gardens. About plants and tips and the philosophy of a garden. The last night I saw her, she told me about the garden she planned for next year - that she had planted entire beds of perennials after her diagnosis. She worked like a woman possessed at planning and planting and cultivating. She did not live to see the fruit of the vine, the work of her hands. She did not live to see green poking out of the ground in spring time, and she did not live to see the inventory all gardeners do, the survey to see what has made it through the long and cold and dark winter, and will show up for spring. She did not live to see the lush flowers of summer, she did not live to smell the last gasp of the sweet peas in late fall. She did not live in her body, but her garden, is possibly just large enough to encompass her spirit.
I did not understand what she was doing then. I merely stayed silent, asking questions about what she planted. I did not understand what she was trying to accomplish. I did not understand the space she was living in.
The smell of thyme and basil are heavy on my hands. Dirt on my knees, swatting away the yellow-jackets, and laughing at the dog who is trying to catch fall-lazy flies and still not succeeding. I am mid-way through my work, and the warmth of the day is lying to me, telling me that I have lots of time before the snow, although experience tells me that I may only have a week. I am looking at what is left to be done, trying to decide if I should work by task, moving everything that needs to be moved, planting what needs to be planted, or if I should concentrate on beds, doing all that is needed in each bed. I am counting the work against the time, and I am coming up short. And I am remembering my laughter as I planted those thyme seeds, some 4 years ago. In my need for ritual, to honour the special moments in life, I decided to plant thyme in the garden first. The statement amused me. Tickling my need for irony and relevance.
But perhaps, as I sit, for a few moments, trying to plan, knowing that I will not be in my garden next year, I will be trying to grow a baby, perhaps I am understanding the lessons of the gardener. We give our gardens as gifts to the world, a place to grow wise and feel ease, but we do not live in them as they are, we create them for our memories, a place to retreat to on winter days, and a place to dream about. Gardens, for gardeners at least, live in the province of yesterday - the plants we remember, that did not make the winter, the blooms that are larger and sweeter in our memory. And we live in the future, as we plan. Our plans are never done, indeed, most never come to be. Our gardens outlive us, become larger than we are. They become more important, more organic than we could ever be.
You see, a gardener lives in the past and in the future, but not really in the present.
Monday Miscellany
This Monday Miscellany brought to you by a person who has had very little sleep and has been counting money (None of it mine, alas) at a Casino until 2:45 am.
This person is going to bed now. She'll see you alltomorrow this afternoon.
Have a great morning without me.
This person is going to bed now. She'll see you all
Have a great morning without me.
Saturday's are For Quotes
A diplomat is a man who always remembers a woman's birthday,
but never remembers her age.
Robert Frost
Thirty Without You
I thought I had a plan. I was going to give birth at the end of March. Which would give me a month and a bit to recover, so that I could plant a (smaller) garden. Veggies to use for baby food.I would spend the summer outside, playing with you. We were going to the zoo, to The Carrot, Fort Edmonton Park, to the river valley for walks with the dogs. We would play. We would do some travelling with your dad, when he had to work out of town this summer. I bought a bassinet for when I gardened. It would be an idyllic year.
And then, at the end of the summer, when things turned into fall, I would see the end of this decade of my life, and welcome the next, with you by my side. I would enter my 30's as a mum. Your mum. I would be changed from a girl to a woman.
I pictured a birthday party, with you. A birthday gift, from you. I pictured your father plotting and scheming what you would buy me. You were going to be here. Last year, at work, they had cake for the birthday of the new mum. This year, it will just be cake for me, and no one remembers you. I will accept every one's wishes, their hugs, their congratulations. My oldest friends will ,perhaps, tell me how proud they are of me, and perhaps, if they are feeling particularly kind and expansive, they will tell me that I am growing into the remarkable woman I have always wanted to be - a woman who is kind and thoughtful and passionate and strong. And maybe I am. Because of you.
And I will be 30 on Saturday.
Without you.
Holy Hot Water
I come from a long line of Altar Guild women. I remain fully convinced that 5 minutes after Henry VIII created the church of England, one of my distant ancestors began tormenting a parish priest because he dripped wine. I suppose it was, ultimately, my destiny. But destiny failed me, and did not equip me with an innate knowledge of what to do with linens. There's a book. I didn't get the book. (You knew there would be a book, didn't you?)
I'm still not entirely sure how I came to join the Altar Guild. These were the women I both mocked, and I confess, was terrified of. Truly, I tell you, any sane person should be scared of these women. It is simply not normal that anyone could be that distressed over candle wax on a linen table cloth. It's frightening when it's your mother, foaming at the mouth.
And when you are the youth pastor, and you are caught between a young man who is terrified and traumatized and refusing to come to church, and a foaming mother; honestly about all you can think of to say is "Back away. Don't make eye contact."
For those that have managed to remain blissfully unaware, the Altar Guild is responsible for the care and maintenance of the church. Specifically the bit with the altar in it. They get a room, called the sacristy. They take care of the linens used on the altar(!), set out communion, arrange the flowers, change the hangings so they are the right colour at the right time (which changes more often than is entirely reasonable), and generally strike fear and terror into the lives of young men and women who are unfortunate enough to become altar assistants - the nemesis of any woman on Altar Guild. And when they come to see you, in full sail, you run. Or shove your husband in front of them.
And somehow, because these women have a club name, and they have their own room, you just knew they would have their own language. I have to take a purificator and a veil (and supposedly corporals too, but I'm getting ahead of myself.) and I have to, well, wash them and fold them. And of course if they have their own room and their own language, and everyone is scared of them, you know that we aren't talking putting them in the wash with your light-coloured load and folding them in half and calling it done.
I did what any sensible Anglican daughter does. I took a deep breath, and called the Anglican mother. Who became very distressed that I had the holy linens in the holy linen bag on my stove. I was told to put them in a plastic container with mild soap, and not to throw the water out.
I found a juice jug. And I put the holy linens, still in the holy linen bag into my orange juice jug. Where they sat until Wednesday night.
The Anglican mother arrived, under full sail, thrilled to be able to educate her 30 year old daughter. Somehow the basics of cooking and cleaning and mending escaped her, but by golly (or possibly by corporal), she was going to show me what to do with the holy linens.
We both experienced a let down, when she pulled out the holy linens, which were still in the holy bag out of the now holy juice jug (as it turns out the bag isn't holy, it's just a bag). That was the first time she called me by all three of my first names.
And then we had to wash them. Which means rinsing them three times. Apparently there is a trinity of laundry. Who knew? And when you have holy linens and a not-so holy bag, and a holy juice jug, you get holy water. I was dispatched to water the mum's on the front porch with the holy water. I guess I have holy mum's now too.
I came back in to a question. All three full names and my maiden name. It probably didn't help that I looked at her blankly. After all, there are the thingies that go over the chalice, and the whatchamacallit that goes over the reserve sacrament, and there is the cardboard covered in linen bit, which is called a pall, but is not to be confused by the large cloth that goes over the casket, which is also called a pall. And there is the coloured stuff that drives me crazy and strikes fear in my heart when I realize I have to change colours. There's a lot of coloured stuff, and it is all over the church. But she wanted to know where the corporals were? And there should be three? (Surprise, I know). And I didn't know what a corporal was?
She described it. We hit all five names, three given, one maiden, and one married, when I told her that those were still clean, so I popped them (reverently, honest, I swear, really) back in the cupboard of thescary room err, sacristy. Apparently my attempts at preserving the (not-so) holy bag and the creation of a holy juice jug were not enough to save me from not. washing. something. that. had. been. used. on. the. ALTAR.
And we washed, and then I got the holy? iron, and the holy? ironing board. And I learned to iron and fold. There is, in case you were interested, trinity of ironing too (You're surprised, right?). We iron one side. Flip to iron the other. At this point the holy linens have approached the texture of holy cardboard, and the holy iron is making holy flatulent sounds. The sound of the iron made my mother use all my names, again. I may be getting another iron for my birthday, which is great, except that I'm not sure what I do with the old holy? iron. . .
I have the holy linens, folded in three(!) and ironed for a third time and they are straight (I hauled out the blocking yardstick to make sure - thanks Kuri!) the not-so holy bag (also ironed, just in case?), the holy juice jug(can I de-consecrate this, do you think?) the holy mums, the holy iron, the holy ironing board, and a holy Safeway bag I put the holy linens in.
I'm just not so sure I'm cut out for this level of holiness.
I'm still not entirely sure how I came to join the Altar Guild. These were the women I both mocked, and I confess, was terrified of. Truly, I tell you, any sane person should be scared of these women. It is simply not normal that anyone could be that distressed over candle wax on a linen table cloth. It's frightening when it's your mother, foaming at the mouth.
And when you are the youth pastor, and you are caught between a young man who is terrified and traumatized and refusing to come to church, and a foaming mother; honestly about all you can think of to say is "Back away. Don't make eye contact."
For those that have managed to remain blissfully unaware, the Altar Guild is responsible for the care and maintenance of the church. Specifically the bit with the altar in it. They get a room, called the sacristy. They take care of the linens used on the altar(!), set out communion, arrange the flowers, change the hangings so they are the right colour at the right time (which changes more often than is entirely reasonable), and generally strike fear and terror into the lives of young men and women who are unfortunate enough to become altar assistants - the nemesis of any woman on Altar Guild. And when they come to see you, in full sail, you run. Or shove your husband in front of them.
And somehow, because these women have a club name, and they have their own room, you just knew they would have their own language. I have to take a purificator and a veil (and supposedly corporals too, but I'm getting ahead of myself.) and I have to, well, wash them and fold them. And of course if they have their own room and their own language, and everyone is scared of them, you know that we aren't talking putting them in the wash with your light-coloured load and folding them in half and calling it done.
I did what any sensible Anglican daughter does. I took a deep breath, and called the Anglican mother. Who became very distressed that I had the holy linens in the holy linen bag on my stove. I was told to put them in a plastic container with mild soap, and not to throw the water out.
I found a juice jug. And I put the holy linens, still in the holy linen bag into my orange juice jug. Where they sat until Wednesday night.
The Anglican mother arrived, under full sail, thrilled to be able to educate her 30 year old daughter. Somehow the basics of cooking and cleaning and mending escaped her, but by golly (or possibly by corporal), she was going to show me what to do with the holy linens.
We both experienced a let down, when she pulled out the holy linens, which were still in the holy bag out of the now holy juice jug (as it turns out the bag isn't holy, it's just a bag). That was the first time she called me by all three of my first names.
And then we had to wash them. Which means rinsing them three times. Apparently there is a trinity of laundry. Who knew? And when you have holy linens and a not-so holy bag, and a holy juice jug, you get holy water. I was dispatched to water the mum's on the front porch with the holy water. I guess I have holy mum's now too.
I came back in to a question. All three full names and my maiden name. It probably didn't help that I looked at her blankly. After all, there are the thingies that go over the chalice, and the whatchamacallit that goes over the reserve sacrament, and there is the cardboard covered in linen bit, which is called a pall, but is not to be confused by the large cloth that goes over the casket, which is also called a pall. And there is the coloured stuff that drives me crazy and strikes fear in my heart when I realize I have to change colours. There's a lot of coloured stuff, and it is all over the church. But she wanted to know where the corporals were? And there should be three? (Surprise, I know). And I didn't know what a corporal was?
She described it. We hit all five names, three given, one maiden, and one married, when I told her that those were still clean, so I popped them (reverently, honest, I swear, really) back in the cupboard of the
And we washed, and then I got the holy? iron, and the holy? ironing board. And I learned to iron and fold. There is, in case you were interested, trinity of ironing too (You're surprised, right?). We iron one side. Flip to iron the other. At this point the holy linens have approached the texture of holy cardboard, and the holy iron is making holy flatulent sounds. The sound of the iron made my mother use all my names, again. I may be getting another iron for my birthday, which is great, except that I'm not sure what I do with the old holy? iron. . .
I have the holy linens, folded in three(!) and ironed for a third time and they are straight (I hauled out the blocking yardstick to make sure - thanks Kuri!) the not-so holy bag (also ironed, just in case?), the holy juice jug(can I de-consecrate this, do you think?) the holy mums, the holy iron, the holy ironing board, and a holy Safeway bag I put the holy linens in.
I'm just not so sure I'm cut out for this level of holiness.
Wednesday's are for Grammar (What Makes a Sentence)
Last Week's Homework:
Your assignment was to write me a sentence that completely violated all of the correct rules of capitalization. I really enjoyed reading your sentences. You made me laugh out loud!
Those who get to post the good grammar button:
Alice
Julia S
Carmen
LoriBeth
JamieD
And the Shiny Red Pencil for Keeners:
Ahh, this was a hard decision.
Should I give it to Alice, who rhymes. . .
Julia S, who can totally use some love.
Carmen who is new. . .
LoriBeth, who has the same rant about capitalization that I do. .
or
Martha, who not only did her homework, but has bribed the teacher with chocolate. She's kind of a floozy that way (The teacher not Martha).
A stern reminder: Your grammar button is only good for one week. Keep the button up longer and your broccoli will grow roots and fraternize with your potatoes, strange little fish will come to inhabit your toilet bowl and your car will only make left turns. Honest.
This Week's Lesson:
Ahh, dear readers, what makes a sentence? A capital letter at one end, and a period at the other?
No.
A million times no.
Absolutely Not!
Now, all of you will have read the entry on subjects and predicates, no? What do you mean you haven't? Well, go read it.
Now, do try to keep up.
So, you will remember that all sentences have a subject and a predicate. What else can we say about a sentence: It should be able to stand alone.
What happens when we have sentences that can't stand alone? We have a sentence fragment.
Test Number 1
Want a quick test? Ask yourself, does this sentence have a verb and a subject? Very often when we read a fragment, we are left reading the sentence, saying "and. . .?" Consider the following sentence.
The purple knitting needles.
Well, what about them? It's great that there are purple knitting needles, but we don't have them doing anything, they are lacking a verb. Alternatively, we could have this sentence:
Knitting really fast.
Notice anything? That's right. No subject.
No subject = no Sentence.
Test Number 2:
One final test - does the sentence start with a dependent clause:
Your assignment was to write me a sentence that completely violated all of the correct rules of capitalization. I really enjoyed reading your sentences. You made me laugh out loud!
Those who get to post the good grammar button:
Alice
Julia S
Carmen
LoriBeth
JamieD
And the Shiny Red Pencil for Keeners:
Ahh, this was a hard decision.
Should I give it to Alice, who rhymes. . .
Julia S, who can totally use some love.
Carmen who is new. . .
LoriBeth, who has the same rant about capitalization that I do. .
or
Martha, who not only did her homework, but has bribed the teacher with chocolate. She's kind of a floozy that way (The teacher not Martha).
A stern reminder: Your grammar button is only good for one week. Keep the button up longer and your broccoli will grow roots and fraternize with your potatoes, strange little fish will come to inhabit your toilet bowl and your car will only make left turns. Honest.
This Week's Lesson:
Ahh, dear readers, what makes a sentence? A capital letter at one end, and a period at the other?
No.
A million times no.
Absolutely Not!
Now, all of you will have read the entry on subjects and predicates, no? What do you mean you haven't? Well, go read it.
Now, do try to keep up.
So, you will remember that all sentences have a subject and a predicate. What else can we say about a sentence: It should be able to stand alone.
What happens when we have sentences that can't stand alone? We have a sentence fragment.
Test Number 1
Want a quick test? Ask yourself, does this sentence have a verb and a subject? Very often when we read a fragment, we are left reading the sentence, saying "and. . .?" Consider the following sentence.
The purple knitting needles.
Well, what about them? It's great that there are purple knitting needles, but we don't have them doing anything, they are lacking a verb. Alternatively, we could have this sentence:
Knitting really fast.
Notice anything? That's right. No subject.
No subject = no Sentence.
Test Number 2:
One final test - does the sentence start with a dependent clause:
- After
- although
- as
- because
- before
- even though
- if
- since
- though
- unless
- until
- when
- whenever
- where
- wherever
Your Homework:
See if you can find me an example of a sentence fragment that is masquerading as a sentence.
Praise (6x6 Meme)
Give thanks to the Lord
For He is good
His love endures forever.
Give thanks to the Lord
Yes, it's my bound duty. It's my obligation. It's what the created does to the creator. I have learned, in these vast and long and pain filled 9 months to give thanks in all circumstances. And it is not always hard. It is not hard to see His great mercy, His loving kindness and give thanks.
For His love endures forever
"What is man that you are mindful of him. The son of man that you care for him?" Psalm 8:4.
Yes, long before I was in this world, God was. Long after I leave it, He will still be here. He is larger than I am. He is mindful of me.
Oh, yes. I missed one.
For He is good.
My mind was racing, my heart was breaking, tears and sobbing through the music - I missed my Gabriel particularly on Sunday. There were oh so many children, and I missed my son.
I was thinking of the nature of gratitude and joy. The Assistant Parish Priest sat in front of me. Except that she's not the parish priest, she's on parental leave for the next 32 weeks. And the twins were sitting in front of me too. Sweet, wonderful (and totally overwhelmed!) little boys. Which got me thinking about how God changes, in response to our situations. Or, perhaps more accurately, how we may change our view of God, in response to the situation.
I thought of the joy of heaven. And I thought of immense joy I have known. Joy that made me understand the notion of Luke 6 - when it talks about abundance - measures pressed down and still spilling out. And I thought about sorrow - the feeling that all joy had been taken from the world. Be merciful to me, O Lord, for I am in distress; my eyes grow weak with sorrow, my soul and body with grief. (Psalm 6:8) And I thought of how we are not good at mingling joy and sorrow.
We are a backwards, slow thinking people. Or at least I am. Perhaps all of you are more with it. I can only hold one idea of God in my mind, at one time. Either He is kind and merciful and loving and gracious, or He is wild and unpredictable and cunning, or He is judging and stern and distant and perfect.
Shortly after Gabriel's death, I started re-reading the Old Testament. In the midst of being lost and broken - life in the foxhole - I decided to pick up the pieces of my life, at the beginning. Which really is a dreadful place to begin reading about God. Let me tell you: the not dirty - but uncomfortable - secret of Christianity. The God of the Old Testament, He appears vastly unpredictable. Wildly irrational. He seems absolutely arbitrary. He is a level of arbitrary that would make the world's dictators blush. He makes no sense. None. Even knowing how the story of the Old Testament will "end", so to speak, I still can't make heads or tails of this God. Intervening sometimes, seeming to hide His face others. He's certainly not a God that I am comfortable with. This OT Jehovah, this Yaweh, who says his name is "I AM", I am not ok with Him. He's not cozy. I'm not quite sure how He works.
Now, the wise among you will notice that there is still a sentence outstanding. For He is good. For my faith to be true, for it to be real, for it to have survived, I must be able to say this: In all things, in spite of all things, all seeming evidence to the contrary, I must be able to hold up my head, and proclaim that God is still good. Which seems a hard thing, in light of the whole dead baby thing.
I am learning this. That God is not good. Or, perhaps more accurately, God is not merely good. He is God. And that means that His actions, His ways, His thoughts, they are not the same as mine. And He is not comfortable. He's wild and unpredictable. The Old Testament, with a God who is distant, withdrawn, arbitrary, He is different than the God of the New Testament. Jehovah is the same Abba, even if I perceive him differently.
My faith is wider, deeper, broader. It has known joy, and it has know sorrow, and it has known them in the same moments. The Lord of joy and the Lord of sorrow, the Lord of dance, the Lord of the dirge, the Lord I thanked for my pregnancy, the Lord I baptised my son to, the Lord I asked to acknowledge a sheep of his own flock, a sinner of His own redeeming at my son's funeral. The Lord who heard the agony filled whimpers calling out that it hurts, He is the same Lord. I just never knew him in all those faces. I never knew he could look so many ways.
I can say that God is good. But it seems paltry and small to leave it at that.
For He is good
His love endures forever.
Give thanks to the Lord
Yes, it's my bound duty. It's my obligation. It's what the created does to the creator. I have learned, in these vast and long and pain filled 9 months to give thanks in all circumstances. And it is not always hard. It is not hard to see His great mercy, His loving kindness and give thanks.
For His love endures forever
"What is man that you are mindful of him. The son of man that you care for him?" Psalm 8:4.
Yes, long before I was in this world, God was. Long after I leave it, He will still be here. He is larger than I am. He is mindful of me.
Oh, yes. I missed one.
For He is good.
My mind was racing, my heart was breaking, tears and sobbing through the music - I missed my Gabriel particularly on Sunday. There were oh so many children, and I missed my son.
I was thinking of the nature of gratitude and joy. The Assistant Parish Priest sat in front of me. Except that she's not the parish priest, she's on parental leave for the next 32 weeks. And the twins were sitting in front of me too. Sweet, wonderful (and totally overwhelmed!) little boys. Which got me thinking about how God changes, in response to our situations. Or, perhaps more accurately, how we may change our view of God, in response to the situation.
I thought of the joy of heaven. And I thought of immense joy I have known. Joy that made me understand the notion of Luke 6 - when it talks about abundance - measures pressed down and still spilling out. And I thought about sorrow - the feeling that all joy had been taken from the world. Be merciful to me, O Lord, for I am in distress; my eyes grow weak with sorrow, my soul and body with grief. (Psalm 6:8) And I thought of how we are not good at mingling joy and sorrow.
We are a backwards, slow thinking people. Or at least I am. Perhaps all of you are more with it. I can only hold one idea of God in my mind, at one time. Either He is kind and merciful and loving and gracious, or He is wild and unpredictable and cunning, or He is judging and stern and distant and perfect.
Shortly after Gabriel's death, I started re-reading the Old Testament. In the midst of being lost and broken - life in the foxhole - I decided to pick up the pieces of my life, at the beginning. Which really is a dreadful place to begin reading about God. Let me tell you: the not dirty - but uncomfortable - secret of Christianity. The God of the Old Testament, He appears vastly unpredictable. Wildly irrational. He seems absolutely arbitrary. He is a level of arbitrary that would make the world's dictators blush. He makes no sense. None. Even knowing how the story of the Old Testament will "end", so to speak, I still can't make heads or tails of this God. Intervening sometimes, seeming to hide His face others. He's certainly not a God that I am comfortable with. This OT Jehovah, this Yaweh, who says his name is "I AM", I am not ok with Him. He's not cozy. I'm not quite sure how He works.
Now, the wise among you will notice that there is still a sentence outstanding. For He is good. For my faith to be true, for it to be real, for it to have survived, I must be able to say this: In all things, in spite of all things, all seeming evidence to the contrary, I must be able to hold up my head, and proclaim that God is still good. Which seems a hard thing, in light of the whole dead baby thing.
I am learning this. That God is not good. Or, perhaps more accurately, God is not merely good. He is God. And that means that His actions, His ways, His thoughts, they are not the same as mine. And He is not comfortable. He's wild and unpredictable. The Old Testament, with a God who is distant, withdrawn, arbitrary, He is different than the God of the New Testament. Jehovah is the same Abba, even if I perceive him differently.
My faith is wider, deeper, broader. It has known joy, and it has know sorrow, and it has known them in the same moments. The Lord of joy and the Lord of sorrow, the Lord of dance, the Lord of the dirge, the Lord I thanked for my pregnancy, the Lord I baptised my son to, the Lord I asked to acknowledge a sheep of his own flock, a sinner of His own redeeming at my son's funeral. The Lord who heard the agony filled whimpers calling out that it hurts, He is the same Lord. I just never knew him in all those faces. I never knew he could look so many ways.
I can say that God is good. But it seems paltry and small to leave it at that.
