Happy Monday! Happy November! For all sorts of reasons November is one of my favorite months. For one, my birthday rolls around this time of year, but mostly it’s because of the weather, the beautiful fall colors, and it’s the month of gratitude. I know, every month and every day should be one of gratitude and I make an effort to be aware of that. But this month with the abundance of harvests and Thanksgiving … well, maybe there are more reminders.
It’s Monday morning as I finally work on this post so I know it will be later in the day than I like getting it live. Instead of writing I’ve been grounding. Because of major writing/editing projects and travel I’ve not played in the dirt much. And it shows. In my body and in my writing. There’s a tension and disconnect that’s uncomfortable. In some ways it’s like running a hard race, getting to the finish line, and being unable to stop.
I’m embarrassed to admit that some of those pots have been waiting for a year or more to be rid of the pollinators and native plants they’ve held. So, for the last couple of weeks I’ve been slowly emptying them. It’s been a process.
This section of the yard is called my Garden of Weedin’ for a reason. I’ve mentioned we’re pretty much surrounded by woods so creeping-crawling vines wind their way through the chain link fence, and golden rod, horsetail fern, and wild aster take root with no help on my part. The spiky things in my gloves are seeds for some other wild weed with lovely yellow flowers the bees and butterflies visit. Walking by the plants dislodges these hitchhiker seeds and I’m pretty sure a new crop of the weeds will sprout next spring … somewhere! As much as I appreciate God’s sowing and I do leave patches of the wild stuff, if I don’t keep it under some kind of control, I’d literally not be able to walk in there. So, I get down on my knees and pull and open spaces for those plants in the pots.
Maybe it’s being on my knees in the dirt–or in my case, brick-like clay–that aid in the grounding. It’s down here I see all the bugs, insects, spiders, minute frogs and lizards, and finally this year a baby snake … who was relocated to the other side of the fence. I’m always amazed at how small some critters are. I’m always in awe of their beauty, diversity, industriousness, their simple sense of simply being. My worldview focuses on the Lilliputian world at my knees, instead of the clock, the politics, the noise of the normal-sized world. I allow the tiny creatures space to go about their business while I go about mine.
On my knees at the wheelbarrow, I crumble the bricks of clay into pea-sized clods or pulverized dust. I could use the shovel, I do sometimes, but it’s that sensory connection to the earth that works the miracle. I work good soil from the nursery into the clay, scooping and folding the two together, eventually the good dispersing through the bad until the clay is hardly recognizable. Finally, I plant.
I believe anyone who plays in the dirt probably experiences the same things I do. The heartbeats of being ‘on’ and alert because of schedules finally stop racing. The monkey mind of all the things on the ‘to do’ list quiets. While time doesn’t literally stop, it disappears and the day isn’t measured by hours and alarms on my phone, but by which flower bed or flower pot needs attention.
Grounding returns all the senses to their proper place, rebuilds my internal foundation.
Yesterday was All Saints Day and today is All Souls Day for many Christian faith traditions. They’re days to remember the dead–those who are saints recognized by the Church and those in our lives who were saintly. Both groups of people ‘grounded us’ (okay, maybe not in the same way our parents did), and gave us a foundation, not only in faith but also in life. While I’m out digging in the dirt I always think of my elderly neighbors, ‘Grandma and Grandpa’ Stone, who always welcomed me into their garden, from the time I was three-years-old and Grandpa assured Mom he’d watch me as I crossed the alley between our houses, until the day I married and Hubby and I visited Grandma in the nursing home, still wearing our wedding finery. They were stellar examples of being grounded, of not being so busy they couldn’t sit under their cherry tree to watch traffic, shoo away birds, and visit with a toddler.
This is my morning glory tree. I’d never heard of it but it was so pretty I had to buy it. Unfortunately, when I brought it home, it was also top-heavy, so kept toppling over. I’d find it on its side every morning when I went out to water things. It’d lost all its flowers and buds, the stem twisted to get a little bit of sunlight. It was the first plant I planted when I started my own grounding, and within 24 hours several new buds appeared. This morning she bloomed. Being grounded is a good thing. We just have to make sure we’re in the right spot.
And today I wrote.
I’m excited to open my window again next week. I’ll be visiting something special and I can’t wait to tell you about it and share photos. I hope you have a good week. May tomorrow come and go without incident, may clear heads and generous hearts prevail. See you on Monday.
