Last week I wrote “Begin again.”
We begin again. And again. And again.
Lately I’m also thinking of letting go.
We let go again. And again. And again.
I wrote the post “Letting go” on this topic last autumn. The symbolism of the changing colors and falling leaves is ripe for reflections on the theme.
Yes, and. (“Both / And”)
Letting go also can move us toward letting in.
When we let go of some things, we can also let in others.
As I puttered in the garden yesterday, I thought about a blog post I wrote five years ago, in August of 2019. In the poem “how does your garden grow?” - I reflected on the garden I did not plant and the wild things that grew there when I let it go.
This summer, we did plant our little plot with tomatoes and cucumbers and herbs and flowers. Still, it’s that time of year, when we start to let it go. It hasn’t rained for weeks, and the weather’s been variable. How much effort (and how much water) do we spend on plants not meant to last past this season? How much do we let go?
In the letting go of some plants, others are let in and flourish or even take over the untended spaces. The morning glory spreads and regals us with its bright flowers. Towering milkweed plants provide habitat for a host of creatures. Yesterday I saw a fiery skipper, a butterfly I haven’t spotted in my garden before. A beautiful, unexpected visitor.
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I also took photos of a few zinnias that grew from seeds scattered in early June. I didn’t initially mean for my shadow to be in the picture. When I noticed it, I decided to play with that. To see how I could incorporate the flowers and the shadows. To be open to the intertwining, the interbeing.
I thought of openness and openheartedness.
I thought of being open to the possibilities.
Letting go.
Letting in.
What am I resisting?
What can be let go?
What can be let in?
How can I be open to the possibilities?
How can I be open to the unexpected?
Perhaps these questions will make you think about that too. I hope so.
Here’s to the unexpected, beautiful possibilities.
With care and gratitude,
Mary
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From the archives:
“how does your garden grow?” on mary’s musings - August 15, 2019
this summer...
my garden is full
of pauses and silences,
breathing deep,
absorbing sunshine and warmth,
renewing.
my garden is full
of so many words,
read,
pondered,
savored.
my garden is full
of tired muscles
happily exerted in
walking,
biking,
running.
my garden is full
of cherished friends.
talking,
sharing,
laughing.
my interior garden
is beautiful,
renewed.
outside...
the garden was
left to fend
for itself;
completely untended
by human hands.
two tomato plants
thrive, sprouted
from the remains
of last year's tomatoes,
that sank into the ground,
wintered there,
and rose again.
morning glory
spreads its showy
pink and purple
flowers everywhere
intertwined with
overgrown oregano,
multitudes of milkweed,
clusters of clover.
my outside garden
was let go, and it too
is beautiful.
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