Sap Rising

Lately my mind has been returning again and again back to the peaceful country town I lived in where I found myself in the soil and the seasons along with the flowers and vegetables. I have been taking you with me as I wander back every few weeks. However it is only fair that I share with you the fact that this little town, which I often refer to as "Mayberry North" - yes, there is a gazebo in the town square - is famous all on it's own.

Marathon, NY, is nestled in a valley about an hour south of Syracuse on the banks of the Tioughnioga River, a tributary of the Chenango River. The name comes from a Native American word meaning, "meeting of waters." Along with it's lovely countryside, friendly people and fertile farmland, the area is known all over New York State for something else - maple syrup! In fact, the annual Maple Festival draws crowds from all over New York and Pennsylvania in late March or early April.  You can enjoy all the many wonderful products made from maple syrup ( mine is maple ice cream) in addition to crafts, food, music, a civil war encampment, demonstrations of wood carving, quilting, rescue dogs, hay rides and even helicopter rides over the river and beyond.

Every year when I thought I could not go through one more cold, grey March day, when I felt like it was all I could do to drag one foot in front of the other, I would wake up one morning to the sight of those shinny pails nailed to the trees outside of my home. Yes! The sap was rising! That was the official sign that spring was only a few weeks away. I can remember pulling on my boots and coat and walking around the village peeking into the pails. Drip by drip the pails would fill.

Day after day the men would come around in an open bed truck and empty the pails into big drums that they took back to the little building on the opposite river bank affectionately known as The Sugar Shack. There, day in and day out, 24 hours a day, the local folk would do what their fathers and grandfathers before them had done for generations: build a roaring fire under the vats of sap and keep it going until all of that wonderful nectar had transformed itself into luscious, golden maple syrup. The smell from the chimney of the Sugar Shack could be inhaled all over the village and it was only the strongest among us who could resist the need to head down to the local diner for a short stack of pancakes dripping with butter and our very own maple syrup. Sitting back with a hot mug of coffee in hand, the phrase, "life is good," really took on meaning.

As we grow older, we come to a point when the kids are gone, the job is gone (or soon to be), and we are merely going through the motions, dragging one foot in front of the other because the alternative is just not acceptable. Then one day we feel a shift, a subtle movement ... our sap is starting to rise. Not a lot at first, but little by little something is rising inside of us that needs to come out: an idea, a new awareness, a knowing. Drip by drip it starts to take shape. Sooner or later we wake up knowing that the pail is finally full and it is time to make it into something to nourish our souls. It is Spring. The buds are on the trees. The robins have come back. A new life is being born, maybe the one that was always there but just never got cooked until it was done. Now the question is, will you bottle it up and put it on the shelf, or will you pour it out for all the world to enjoy?

Isn't it time to sit back with that cup of coffee, smack your lips, and declare, "life is good?"
And so it is.

Stepping On The Path Of Courage

I had originally intended to write a totally different blog today on a totally different subject, but very often life takes us down a different garden path and the learning starts when we gather our courage and take that first step.

I, along with millions of people around the world, have been watching the unfolding events in Rome as His Holiness, Pope Benedict, takes his leave. Although I was raised in the Roman Catholic Church, I chose a different path over 40 years ago that has led me to where I was meant to be. However, things like faith, love and courage blur the lines of religious differences and surely this week we have been witness to all three. It is that last one, courage, that got me to thinking as I sat down at the computer this morning.

As we get older, it takes courage to be willing to let go of those things that we have done or believed in for most of our lives. Change is always hard, but change, like the seasons, is a part of life. The garden needs to sleep in the winter so it can come back renewed in the spring. The things of our past sometimes have to remain in the past so that there is room for new things and new adventures in the here and now, and the opportunity for more in the future.

It took a great deal of courage for this holy man to take a step that no one has taken for the last 600 years. It took great faith and love for his church for him to be willing to break with the traditions of the past to make way for something new. He took his first step on a new and different path. Who knows where it might lead?

When people tell me they are having trouble growing something in their vegetable garden that they always had success with before, I will ask them if they are still planting it in the same spot as they always did. I tell them that rotating their crops is healthy for the soil and the veggies. If that doesn't work, I tell them to consider letting that piece of the garden go fallow to give it a chance to renew and replenish itself. If all else fails, my best advice is to pull out the veggies and plant a meditation garden ... and don't forget the stepping stones.

And so it is.

The Tree of Life

I've spoken before about the small town I used to live in where I discovered my love of gardening, and where I learned alot about myself and about life while digging in my back yard. However, there was quite another adventure going on in front of my home as well.

 The house I lived in, which was built back in the late 1800's, sat on the banks of a small, lazy little river. Every morning I would rise to a view of herons and beavers, ducks and geese, and even an occasional otter who was especially entertaining in the winter when he took to sliding down the embankment on the ice. Across the river on the opposite bank was a stand of trees bordering on a field which the town used for assorted festivities. One tree in particular caught the eye of my oldest granddaughter who spent a great deal of  time with me when she was very little.. She named the tree Grandmother Willow after the character in the Disney movie of the story of Pocahontas which she was obsessed with at the time. The tree was not a willow, of course, but what would be the point of telling her that? In the spring and summer we would pack a picnic lunch and go visit Grandmother Willow on the river bank.  My granddaughter would pick flowers for her, or bring her presents of cookies, leftover veggies or any other treasure she deemed appropriate. We communed with the local wildlife: bunnies, woodchucks, birds of all varieties, and squirrels of every color and size.  Most of all, we learned some very valuable lessons from this formidable old lady.

We learned that trees do not worry about whether they are the biggest or the most important. They aren't jealous if another tree produces fruit while all they can manage are acorns. They don't gloat if   one has brighter colors in the autumn than another, nor do they laugh at each other when their leaves fall to the ground and leave them bare and exposed. What they do is demonstrate the cycles of life, from birth to death and back to birth again, with a clarity and a purpose that defies humans. There they stand, year after year, sometimes for hundreds of years at a time. They provide homes for birds, animals and insects and food for all of them. They give us shade in the summer, wood for our stoves in the winter, and cleaner air to breathe just because they are there. They don't ask to be rewarded, thanked, or gloated over. They go to sleep in the winter, dreaming their dreams of spring secure in the knowledge that when they wake up, their branches will be adorned with little green buds that will leaf into a magnificent canopy of leaves to shelter us all. They witness wars, natural disasters, and the evolution of every species on the planet. Most of all, they are a constant in our lives, something we can turn to whenever we need reassurance that the world we love is still here.

A few years ago we returned to our home town for a festival. My granddaughter, who is now 19, was anxious to show her boyfriend Grandmother Willow. When we got to the place on the river bank where we used to picnic, her face fell. All that remained of her beloved tree was a broken, dried-out stump. Old age and Mother Nature had eventually caught up to her and she went down during the previous winter. My granddaughter was devastated. What could her real Grandma do? I gently brought her attention to the sprouts and new growth that were coming out of the old girl's stump and around her roots. "Those are her children and grandchildren," I told her. "They will carry the story of this place, just like you will carry it to your children and grandchildren. She goes on in them and in you."

Trees have a lot to teach us. Spend some time with one. And if someone calls you a tree-hugger, take it as a compliment.

And so it is.

Confessions Of An Artistic Wanna Be

I cannot imagine any kid anywhere that, when presented with some paints, a paint brush and a plank piece of paper, does not create with all the passion and focus of a Monet or a Rembrandt. I was no exception. As a child I loved art and always imagined that one day one of my masterpieces would adorn the walls of our home complete with gold-edged frame and glass. Alas, my art teachers did not share the same future for me. I had siblings and other relatives that were gifted in that direction but my talents were to take me in a different direction. I just didn't know it at the time. I even had one art teacher in high school tell me she never saw anyone who tried so hard but who just didn't "connect," as she put it.

Fast forward about 40 years. I was visiting a dear friend who paints. I told her the story about my art teacher. She was fuming. "I wonder how many other students she robbed of the joy of painting by her narrow-mindedness," she said. She asked me if I liked to paint. I told her I did and even enjoyed sitting down with the grandkids when they came over and painting with them. "How does painting make you feel?" she asked. "Happy, content, like a kid again," I replied. "Then paint," she commanded! "It doesn't have to be a masterpiece. The joy is in the doing, not the finished product." I went home and started painting for me. I could probably submit them in a children's art contest and no one would be the wiser. It doesn't matter. What matters is that it brings color and feeling into my life and that is all that counts.

As it happened, right about that time is when I discovered gardening and it was there that my artistic talents blossomed along with my flowers. That is where all the longing for color, form and function came together. One was just practice for the other.

Never deny yourself the joy of creating just because you are holding yourself to someone else's standards. It can be painting, writing, gardening, sewing, anything at all. In addition to not being the world's greatest painter, I am also not the world's greatest knitter, yet every year my grandkids get new scarves, or slippers, or leg warmers complete with mistakes. Love doesn't need to earn artistic awards. Besides, imagine how grey and boring our lives would be without the joy of moving from imagintion to creation.

     "Use those talents you have. You will  make it. You will give joy
      to the world. Take this tip from nature: the woods would be a very
      silent place if no birds sang except for those who sang best."
                                              Bernard Meltzer

Gee, I just got a mental picture of  a robin sitting on a branch singing Spring into being. Quick, where did I put my paint brush? Why don't you grab one, too? Or a pen, or whatever your tool of choice is, and create something beautiful?

And so it is.

Faith In A Seed

   

The other day I was standing online at the bookstore waiting to pay for my purchases. As always there were plenty of things displayed to snare the unsuspecting customer with last minute things they didn't know they wanted but had to have. I was no different. There on the counter was a stack of tiny pink boxes that said: Friendship Garden Starter Kit. In each box  was a tiny pot, a tiny peat pellet, and a tiny bag with a few seeds in it. I had my choice of primrose, forget-me-not, and a few others. However I was intrigued by the name of one I had never heard of:: Love In The Mist. The picture on the box was of a little blue flower. I stared out of the window of the store at the grey, cold day, and then back at the box. I picked it up and held it in the palm of my hand. Holding it there, I knew I had to have it.

Right now it is sitting next to me as I write this post. We on the east coast are bracing for what has been described as a serious blizzard. They have changed the ETA of this storm several times. The latest is that it should be starting this afternoon and will reach its peak overnight. It is so grey and foreboding outside my window. The bird feeder is blowing back and forth in anticipation of what it to come. There are no birds anywhere, not even the crows who are unusually hardy around here. So I think maybe now is the perfect time to open the box and start my seeds. I need to feel spring in the palm of my hand.

Henry David Thoreau wrote these words: "Though I do not believe that a plant will spring up where no seed has been, I have great faith in a seed. Convince me that you have a seed there, and I am prepared to expect wonders."

I, too, have faith in a seed. For all the years that I was fortunate enough to have a large, homey garden to play in, I knew that if I did my part - preparing the soil, pulling the weeds, watering and feeding - the seeds I held in my hand would fulfill their promise to grow and bloom into something beautiful. Now that I have my little apartment-size garden on my front porch (subject matter for another post in the future), those seeds are even more precious to me.

I believe the same thing about our dreams and intentions. If I do my part, if I plant my seeds in good soil, feed and water them, and pull out the weeds that represent those thoughts and ideas that no longer serve me, I am prepared to expect wonders. There is nothing I cannot grow including a postage stamp-sized garden. I can grow a new career, a new hobby, a new relationship. I can grow wonders. 

The snow is starting to fall lightly and softly, almost like a mist. How appropriate as I open the box that says, "Love In The Mist" and hold the seeds in my hand.

And so it is.

Dreams In The Mailbox

Back in the not so distant past, before the age of digital "everything," gardeners far and wide would wait with great anticipation for the mailman to deliver the new year's crop of seed and flower catalogues. Nothing brightened the dark days of winter as well as those beautiful, glossy pages filled with the dreams of what their gardens could be. The reality of how they would actually turn out was of little consequence. In their minds eye, as they gazed out over their barren, snow-covered yards, they saw a blaze of color, lush foliage and blue ribbon veggies.

My own personal dream was all about roses. I love roses. My mother loved roses. It didn't matter what color or variety, whether they were shrub roses or heirlooms, I loved them all. The problem was that I just couldn't grow them. Every year when the catalogues arrived in my mailbox, I would drool over the pages and pages of roses like a puppy staring at the box of biscuits on the kitchen counter. I was certain that if I just found the right ones that could acclimate with my yard, I would eventually have a profusion of roses that would be the envy of the neighborhood.

I amended the soil. I moved them to different parts of the garden. I watered, I feed, I pleaded and begged. It didn't matter if they were top of the line or bargin brands ... they just never made it.

What I could grow, however, were begonias. Every color, every variety, they all flourished under my hands. When I had to give up my garden for an apartment in order to be closer to where the jobs were (I cried for a month over that one), I dug up my begonias and took them with me. There on my screened-in porch 3 flights up my begonias bloomed away, greeting me every day when I came home from work and sharing my morning coffee with me on the weekends.  There I would sit in my downsized garden with a book in hand and a cat on my lap and I was happy.

At one point I made the mistake of buying a few miniature potted roses especially for porches and patios. It soon became obvious that the curse had followed me to the city. Whatever was required in ones genetic makeup to grow roses was missing in mine. I gave them to a friend who put them in her garden where I am happy to report they are doing very well.

So what is the moral of this story?

     "There is satisfaction in feeling our forehead smiling every day
       simply because we are trying."
                                                            2013 Winter Feast For The Soul

Out of our trying we find that while there are some things we can't do as well as others, the other side of that coin is that there are some things only we can do. It is in the trying that we discover our gifts. It was out of the dreams that were delivered to me in my mailbox that I discovered the beauty and enjoyment that greets me all spring and summer long out in my garden in the clouds. You just never know what you can do until you try, and out of our seeming failures come our greatest successes.

And so it is.

What's Your Dharma, Baby?

For the last few weeks we have been preparing ourselves to plant the seeds of our intentions for 2013 and for this next stage of our lives. We talked about the stories we tell ourselves about who we are and what we can and can't do, and how we create the limiting beliefs that keep us from living an authentic life. We discovered who we really are and what it is we truly want. This week we are going to tackle the last section in our Soul Profile ... why am I here?

The word dharma means purpose. Davidji, meditation teacher, author and motivational lecturer, says that under the banner of "what is my dharma," we should ask ourselves: How can I help? How can I heal? How can I serve?

Our purpose does not have to be our jobs, although it can be. If you don't know what your purpose is, ask yourself these questions:

     . what is it that I do that, when I'm doing it, I loose all track of time?
     . if I knew in this moment that I could not fail, what would I do?
     . what is it that I love to do so much that I would do it forever if I could?

Now, you may be saying things like: "well, I love to do woodworking, or gardening, but that's not saving the world, or helping someone in need." Sure it is. Grow some beautiful flowers and take them to a nursing home. Make a cradle or a toy for a child. It doesn't matter if you dream of selling ice cream in Alaska or hot tubs in the tropics -  if it brings you joy and that joy radiates to those around you as a result, that's your purpose.

"There are things that only you can do, and you are alive to do them. In the orchestra we call life, you have an instrument and a song." Max Lucado

Nobody can sell those ice cream cones like you can. Nobody can make that cradle or that toy like you can. Nobody can grow flowers as beautiful and meaningful as you can, because the recipient of that ice cream, that toy or those flowers has healed a little bit more because you were in their lives.

That, my friends, is your dharma. So go write your song.
And so it is.