Weeping and Bleeding.
Twenty years ago I was a young mother living in my first home. I had my own garden which I spent countless hours working in. It was not large, but it was full. I terraced an unused hillside to make room for more perennials. Carrying and placing large stones while my baby daughter slept in a carrier on my back. Over time that garden became my favorite place; days would start and end there. It was a beautiful backdrop for life – family reunions, birthday parties and the occasional date night.
Then everything changed. A pain, unexpected and deep, pushed its way into my life. It was a dark time. My garden, like a true friend, invited me in. There, in the quiet, with my hands in the dirt I noticed the rhythm of things. Life. Death. Life again. The barren and empty winter landscape gave way to the spring bloomers that had not been dead, but only waiting beneath the surface. I could see, in my garden, a greater plan. A Master Designer. And over time the pain healed.
I planted a bleeding heart in my garden and as I shoveled the last of the dirt into the hole I laid all the pain to rest. The chapter was closed.
Fifteen years later I was living in a new home. One with a bigger yard and more opportunities to garden. To me, it was Heaven. We moved in the fall so I did not have an opportunity to appreciate all the plants that were in the garden except to notice some beautiful trees, including a weeping birch.
Unfortunately, pain was aware of my new address and made an unscheduled visit. They say gardening is cheaper than therapy, so I gardened with abandon. Planted and pruned. Weeded and deadheaded. Tried to create beauty from ashes.
One day while working in the shade garden I noticed a plant emerging under the weeping birch. Can you guess? It was a bleeding heart. One of my favorite authors, Sydney Eddison, says that “Gardens are a form of autobiography.” My home’s previous owner had plants that were weeping and bleeding. Had he too experienced pain? Had he, like me, found balm in the garden?
These days I am planting more snowdrops; true, it is my logo and I love the toughness of a delicate flower that blooms through the snow, but it symbolizes hope.
What about you? Is your garden telling your story?
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