Obviously, the garden is a place where flowers and vegetables grow. Seeds are buried or the roots of small starts are tucked into the soil. With a bit of moisture, good light, minerals, and enough space both above and below, the seed or the start flourishes.
Roots move downward, reaching for all that would sustain the plant, and spread, offering support for the growing thing. The plant is grounded by its rootedness. Above their groundedness, the stems and leaves move upward, using the parts of light that nourish growth, and spread, giving shade below to conserve moisture.
The plant works as a whole to become a productive and fruitful organism. Like the garden flowers and vegetables, I, too, must be whole to grow into fruitfulness. Too often, I separate myself into parts that seem to be unrelated to the whole.
Exercise keeps my muscles toned. Eating whole foods maintains my digestive system. Meditation reduces reactionary behaviors. Painting frees my right brain. Writing organizes my left brain. And so on . . . In truth, everything must grown together. Nothing is isolated from the whole of my being.
Likewise, the physical, the emotional, the intellectual, the spiritual must be of one piece. Some parts sustain me, other parts support me. Some parts nourish, other parts give shade. So I welcome all of me, the hidden parts and the seen parts, the lovely parts and the unlovely parts, the fruitful parts and the unfruitful parts. It is the wholeness that grounds me. I cannot be without the all of me.
This is the way of the garden life: Grounded wholeness.
Photo: My strawberries.
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