The dianthus rock

This weekend, I found myself sitting near the dianthus rock in the front yard. Really, it is just a huge rock that frames the massive amounts of colorful dianthus nearby. I sat there because it was easier to reach the weeds by being with the weeds, rather than towering over them. Sitting with the weeds actually gave me a view of under-the-plant canopy. I do not see this perspective much, as I tend to look at the plants, rather than getting down with them. When I am at plant level, I see the weeds, but I also see the toads, the new plants coming up, and blooms I hadn’t noticed before. Sitting at plant level also offers me surprises like the kitty jumping out from his napping place to pounce on the weed I am pulling and scaring the dickens out of me.

Being on the dianthus rock places me in a certain spot in our yard. If I look to the left, over the hostas and blooming daylilies, past the birdfeeder, through the hedge and the dust kicked up by a passing car, I see an outline of a window. On the other side of that window is the place my friend took her final breathe on Christmas morning. That was about 6 months ago. I miss her. I miss our talks and our times of not talking, simply sitting sharing silence. There was the laughter and tears shared over everything from our kids, politics, marriage, family, and that damn ALS, which invited both tears and laughter, sometimes at the same time. I saw a different perspective on politics when I was with my friend. I saw the health care issues differently, I heard a different voice about lobbying, and the responses of some of our politicians to the challenges of folks with ALS. I also was present for the stories of what it is like for a mom, a sister, and a wife, to live with a terminal illness. I miss the ritual of walking over, and spending sacred time with her.

Reminded of the blessing, helps me focus on how grand our times could be. Even the tears could be grand. Sitting with my friend also meant sitting with the impact of ALS on her life, and the lives of her family and friends. In a sense, sitting close to my friend, listening, experiencing, caring for each other offered both of us a plant-level view into each other’s lives. It takes time to stop, sit down and watch what is going on a different level. The things we might consider to be weeds will always be there, regardless of the canopy under which we look. However, I wonder if the weeds are just simply part of the landscape and with out them, the beauty of blooms might not seem quite so grand. Perhaps there is something about living with the things that we think are weeds in our lives that make us who we are and who we are becoming. Maybe it is not about worrying about the amount of weeds I think are in my life. Perhaps that is the wrong focus. Rather I might ask of my own self, how might I embrace that which feels like a weed, and learn from it rather than being so obsessed with getting rid of it. That sounds like a completely different type of conversation.