Life

Rocks and shards of glass. Rocks, ok. I get rocks. But glass? Bits of bottles. Why do I find them in every garden I begin? Broken, some large, some small. I once found an entire bottle embedded in the soil. I like to think it is some archangel at work or an archeological dig but more and more I think perhaps it has been bits and pieces of my life. You know that song, I’m in pieces bits and pieces. You said you loved me then you said good bye. I’m in pieces bits and pieces. Now all I can do is sit and cry.

Alcohol was like that for me. Truth is, every toxic relationship I have ever had was like that. Now all those memories are just shards of soil encased glass I reflect upon. Through a glass darkly. Dark because of all the dirt kicked over it sealing it off. There was a time when that glass was whole. But now, now it is just something in bits and pieces, washed over with dirt, rock and years of rain, filling in every crevice to hold it firmly back in the past till I could safely filter through and clear the ground for new growth.

A shovel to dig, sometimes large, sometimes small, and sometimes my hands and fingers thrusting clawing, tugging pulling to clear the soil. A shovel could be a jagged rock in my hands trying to excavate the coiling roots, some so deep, so woven through the soil, it is hard to believe how long it is when I lay it out on the grass or driveway. How did anything live with that squeezing at its life? Alcohol was like that for me. It pressed through me, smoothed the way, went deep then smothered me.

Blah, blah, blah, mine was the hand that poured the drink and drained the bottle into my wee patch of soil. Funny isn’t it. Soil and soul and what we soil our souls with. Soil and soul what will you find when you excavate your life. Is it any wonder that we place our bodies back into the soil? Our soul, that holds, our fractured or fortunate past. What then shall my eternal bed be? Will it be a bed ready to accept and grow my eternal soul? Will I have the patience? Will I have the courage and the faith to clear away the wreckage of the past, to make way for growth or will my soul be suffocated in its journey, blocked from putting down roots because I didn’t take the time to prepare the soil for the soul.

Every bit of rock and glass, wreckage and grateful reflection of my presence, in each and every breath of my life is there. And here I am alive and breathing able to crawl, sprawl and dig. I would spend hours in the garden, days at a time preparing the soil, tilling the cracked dense earth for the new seeds new roots. Hours and days minding the weeds. The weeds that hoped to choke off all the life yet to come. Toil the soil. Pick a patch and dig. This is the soil you are preparing for growth. Take your time. Be thorough, get dirty, and surface with a great smile.

So what do we do in the winter when the ground is so hard? Prepare your tools. Make a plan. Go inside and clear a space to breath. A path for yourself and family to live. Is the music blocked by the couch? Yes it is. Is that a part of your life you are blocking? How do we open it? Is this the time to open it? Maybe the couch is a hill or a mountain or a part of a frame. Or maybe the couch is blocking the music. Move the couch. I moved the couch.

I cannot breathe in the past. But I am breathing now. The past is past. If we try to breathe through the rock, the shards of glass, the twisted roots encased in rain and soil we will die. We will be trapped. We will wither till, there is nothing left. But if we breathe, and clear away that which chokes us, we can live. Creating a new heaven a new earth. The soil we build breath by breath. Breathing our new life into form. Do not be afraid. Breathe. I am alive and breathing, right now. I cannot take it all at once. Create it all at once. I can dig and clear and plant and weed. Nurture without fear. Examine what is past. And what is good I will nurture. And what needs excavation and eviction I shall dispatch. Detach, always with love.