“Life is not about waiting for the storm to pass but about learning to dance in the rain.”
—Vivian Greene (American author and motivational speaker who focuses on themes of personal growth, resilience, and embracing life’s challenges.)
Winter settled in early here in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. Its chill, chillier. Its still, stiller. With night temps below zero and day temps hovering in the teens and twenties, my mountain road became ice layer upon ice layer. Snow still blankets the Great North Mountain Range across the valley, ridgelines shadowed, deep furrows of gray wrinkles defining sharp and rugged terrain lulled into surrender.
As I bring my glance closer to home, I see my wrap-around, snow-covered deck, and in the midst of the floating whiteness is a fire-engine-red hand cart.
I smile as it transports me to last year when my deck, always my above-ground oasis, became a special summer escape. I spent weeks getting down and dirty, scraping off years of deck paint and putting on new primer and new paint. It looked so beautiful that I decided to make it even more special than usual. I married lush greens and artful design, allowing nature and human craftsmanship to merge mid-air. The solid presence of four Adirondack chairs and matching lounger–rich burgundy slats with jet black frames–offered a ready invitation to sit, glide, recline, and be. The rugs defining the sitting areas–bursts of Oriental color and abstract design with blues, pinks, and golds–grounded the whole deck.
I won’t even blush by telling you that my plants last summer stole the show. My tall, stately night-blooming Cereus stretched upward as if trying to touch the sky, while elephant ears fanned outward, their broad, green leaves catching the light just so. The royal purple Musa banana plants, their wide leaves giving off a tropical vibe, reminded me daily that tropical life can flourish for a season, right here on my mountaintop deck. Tucked betwixt and between, smaller pots cradled succulents and geraniums and ferns, almost spilling into the space, their feathery fronds adding softness to the more structured, towering greens. For me, it all felt perfectly placed yet organic, as if my deck had become one with the natural world that surrounds it.
It’s my summer space to unwind, reflect, and listen to the rustle of the breeze, framed by the valley and mountains beyond. It always seems perpetually forever.
Yet, I always know that when fall arrives, my deck morphs into a transition space, caught between seasons. I always move the houseplants indoors, leaving behind scattered soil, stray leaves, and colorful rugs peppered with dirt—a stark contrast to the vibrant life that flourished there just a few days before the march indoors began.
I’ve always loved this parade of plants. I loved it more when I was younger, and my muscles could handle the massive ceramic pots and even larger plants that were a gardener’s eye candy. This past year, the plants seemed lusher, the pots seemed larger, and everything seemed heavier.
I realized that in order to keep the parade moving, I needed a hand cart to help with what had become too big to handle. The cart worked beautifully. Together, we moved the pots so that I could roll up the rugs and ready the deck for its long winter sleep.
When I finished, I left the fire-engine-red hand cart on the deck, right where it made its final lift. I wanted it to stand out, bold and purposeful, a conscious and constant reminder of the options I had when I discovered that the pots and plants on my deck were too big for me to handle.
In that moment, I could have decided that too big to handle was fate’s way of telling me to give up–to stop doing what I’ve spent decades doing; to stop enjoying what I’ve spent decades enjoying. I do not believe the season will ever come when I’ll sigh:
“Enough. I’m done.”
But if that season should arrive, I like to think that I will celebrate it triumphantly with all the notes my feeble gardener’s voice can warble.
Then again, I could have decided that too big to handle was a subtle nudge to scale back, to embrace smaller pots and smaller plants. I know that season may come when I’ll answer the call of the bonsai.
Standing there, however, I realized that too big to handle was not a defeat, but instead, it was an opportunity for me to get the job done differently.
You might be wondering why I didn’t decide to hire someone to move the pots and plants for me. If they’d been in the yard, I might have. To me, the deck is personal, even sacred. It’s me, myself, reaching out to touch the forest beyond and the sky above. The sky and forest reach back, their touch completing the connection. Somehow, the deck is me–one with the universe.
For now–and now is all that matters–I have my fire-engine-red hand cart, my ready ally, poised to see me into a new season and all that might seem too big to handle.
We are all different expressions of one reality, different songs of one singer, different dances of one dancer.
–Swami Satchidananda (1914–2002; pioneering spiritual teacher who emphasized the unity of all religions and the interconnectedness of humanity, best known for founding Integral Yoga and promoting peace, love, and harmony globally.)
“Every cloud has a silver lining” is such a cliché that I’m appalled that I’m using it, no less at the beginning of my post. But I am. In a minute, you’ll understand why. For now, though, bear with me while I find out when the cliché was first used. Don’t run off! I’ll be right back after I consult my good friend, the Oxford English Dictionary (OED).
When I tell you what I found, you’ll be glad that you stayed. The expression started out as a truly original thought:
“Was I deceiv’d, or did a sable cloud Turne forth her silver lining on the night?”
That’s downright beautiful! Who gets the credit? John Milton. He used the phrase in Comus, his 1634 masque in which a virtuous Lady, lost in a magical forest, resists the temptations of the sorcerer Comus, the son of the wine god Bacchus and the sorceress Circe. With a combo like that, do I need to say more? Well, yes, I do, and I will. The “silver lining” in Lady’s dark cloud was the triumph of her chastity and inner strength over vice and deception. There. That says it all.
It took an understandably long, long time before Milton’s original thought veered off in the direction of becoming a cliché, thereby losing its impact. Let’s face it: most people would be challenged to remember Milton’s line, and if they did, they’d probably stumble over sable, perhaps not knowing that it means black or dark.
But don’t worry. Over time, the expression morphed into something more memorable and more understandable. More than two hundred years later, a variation appeared in Samuel Smiles’ Character (1871):
“While we see the cloud, let us not shut our eyes to the silver lining.”
Smiles was well-known for his self-help books, enshrining the basic Victorian values associated with the “gospel of work.”
Things started to speed up in the next decade, when an even more memorable version appeared in Gilbert and Sullivan’s The Mikado, or the Town of Tutipu (1885):
“Don’t let’s be down-hearted! There’s a silver lining to every cloud.”
That comedic opera went on to become one of the most frequently performed works in the history of musical theatre. Little wonder that the line became overused and stale.
And there we have it: the birth of a cliché, with a small amount of its genealogical baggage tossed in for free. How’s that for good news?
Since the rest of this post is free, too, you’re getting a double dose of good news today. Who knows. With luck, maybe you’ll get even more. I hope so.
As for your humble bearer of all this free good news, apparently, I’ve been spreading it for a lifetime. My mother always boasted that I was born smiling, and I’ve kept right on smiling for nearly 77 years. I can’t help myself. Optimism is one of my core values. I guess you might say that I’m hardwired for seeing silver linings. There you have it: my personal good news and my rationale for opening this post with a cliché.
I wish that I could take full credit for seeing life as positively as I do. But I can’t. I have to acknowledge my mother. I have no doubt that while she was carrying me in her womb, she was conjuring up all the positive attributes that she wanted her sixth child to possess, and I’m sure that in addition to her conjurations, she was casting equally powerful spells on me and others by singing Gospels and by reading, praying, and preaching the Bible.
It took me a few years before I could sing the songs, pray the prayers, or read the Bible–the vessels carrying the Good News that was at the core of my Judeo-Christian upbringing.
But that was not a problem for me. Reading was not required for me to find my own good news, here, there, everywhere–outdoors.
I found as much delight in whispering to the buzzing honeybee cupped in my hand as I did chasing with wild abandon the heifer on the run through the coal camp, as confident that it would let me lead it home as I was certain that the honeybee would not sting the hand that proffered love.
I found as much joy lying in the grass blowing dandelion seeds into the sun as I did racing between the pitter patter of raindrops or as I did in dancing off to the end of the rainbow, coal bucket in hand so that I could bring back home all the gold nuggets awaiting my arrival.
I found as much miracle in green beans poking their fragile-coated selves through the hardness of blackened coal-camp earth as I did in the sticky white pinkness of the Mountain Laurel outside our kitchen door, stretching toward blue, over the top of the house.
And when someone reached up to the top of the Hoosier kitchen cabinet and turned off the horizontally ribbed, off-white Philco radio, I found myself believing that whatever song was playing would keep right on playing when someone else turned it back on, and if it didn’t, I believed beyond any shadow of a doubt that an even more beautiful melody would lift me up.
I found that the child in me awakened every morning, always delighted and excited to be part of a brand-new day, every second of every day. I had no idea what the day would bring, but I was eager for it to start ticking, knowing that I would find joy in its unfolding.
It should come as no surprise that everyone called me Little Mr. Sunshine. The good news that I found all around me stamped its imprimatur of a joyful smile upon my countenance.
It should come as even less of a surprise that when I learned to read and entered into a fuller understanding of the world around me, I was pulled as if by gravity itself to Robert Frost’s poetry and his profound connections between nature and humanity. In those early years of studying Frost, it did not matter that I did not see his darker side, personally or poetically. All that mattered was that his poetry spoke to my heart and made me believe–no, know–that I was part of the universal scheme of things. I’m thinking of poems like “Birches” and the speaker’s desire to escape the complexities of adult life and return to nature’s purity. Or “Mowing,” in which the speaker meditates on the act of mowing a field, focusing on the simple, rhythmic, and satisfying–almost sacred–connection between human labor and the natural world. And I can’t leave out his “Tree at My Window” and its compelling opening stanza:
Tree at my window, window tree, My sash is lowered when night comes on; But let there never be curtain drawn Between you and me.
I could relate. I never wanted the curtain drawn between me and the outer world, and, for that matter, I never felt that it could be drawn because I saw the outer world and my inner world as one and the same.
I could relate even more when I discovered Walt Whitman who saw mankind as an integral and interconnected part of nature, celebrating the unity between the human spirit and the natural world, where every individual is both a unique expression of life and a vital element in the eternal, cosmic cycle. I could blindly open Whitman’s Song of Myself, letting my hand fall on any page that I might open, hoping to find validation and the positive connection between man and the cosmos–my source for the good news–confident that I would find it. Right now, I’m thinking of Section 6, where Whitman uses the leaf of grass as a symbol of the individual and the continuity of life:
A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands; How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he.
The leaf of grass becomes a metaphor for the cycle of life, the interconnectedness of all living things, and the mysteries of existence. Whitman reflects on how the grass can represent everything from the handkerchief of God to the graves of the dead, expressing his belief in the unity of nature and humanity.
The notion that all living things share an interconnectedness clutches my heart and shakes my soul in jubilant celebration. I am one with all. All is one with me. I’m not certain that the news gets any better. But it does. Let me explain.
When I started reading the Bible–one of the major books in the world declaring the Good News–I saw multiple ways of looking at it. Without a doubt, I understood that many Christians focus on the Good News as God’s plan to save humanity through Jesus Christ’s death and resurrection, offering forgiveness of sins and eternal life to those who believe. I also understood that others emphasize the coming of the Kingdom of God, where Jesus’ teachings bring transformation in how we live, treat others, and build just communities. Some understand the Gospel as a message of unconditional love, grace, and acceptance, where God’s love is freely given to all, regardless of merit. For some, the Good News is also a message of personal renewal and transformation, where individuals are invited to grow spiritually, morally, and in relationship with God. For others, the Gospel is about challenging social injustices and bringing peace, equality, and care for the marginalized, aligning with Jesus’ teachings on compassion and service.
It can, of course, be all those things. At the same time, a leaning toward one in no way excludes or minimizes the others. But for me personally, central to the spirit of the Good News is the belief that better times are coming. That doesn’t surprise me at all. This belief goes hand-in-hand with my conviction that every cloud has a silver lining. The idea that better times are ahead—whether today, tomorrow, or forever and a day—is a powerful way for me to stay hopeful and to embrace the positive transformations happening in my life. It’s uplifting for me to frame my life and life in general that way, because it keeps the focus on growth and renewal.
This is where the news starts getting better. The spirit of the Good News, as I see it—focused on personal transformation, hope, and the belief that better times are coming—resonates in other major world religions. While the specifics differ, many religions share themes of renewal, hope, and the potential for positive change.
Judeo-Christian beliefs are rich in Jewish thought and teachings with its strong emphasis on hope, justice, and the idea of tikkun olam (repairing the world). Jewish teachings often stress that despite the suffering or hardships experienced, there’s always hope for better times, often through collective effort and living according to the Torah’s ethical principles.
Emerging after Judaism and Christianity is Islam, with hope and transformation expressed through the belief in God’s mercy and guidance. Muslims believe that turning toward God, following the teachings of the Quran, and striving to live a just and righteous life bring both inner peace and divine rewards. The idea of continuous improvement (through repentance and good deeds) mirrors the personal transformation that I see in the Good News.
Another ancient world religion, Hinduism, also emphasizes personal growth through karma (the law of action) and dharma (righteous living). The belief in reincarnation offers a hopeful outlook that the soul evolves over lifetimes, learning and growing until it achieves moksha (liberation).
Closely related is Buddhism, in which the concept of transformation is central. The Four Noble Truths recognize the existence of suffering, but the Eightfold Path provides a way to overcome it, leading to enlightenment and freedom from suffering (nirvana). There’s a strong focus on personal growth and cultivating a positive mindset through mindfulness and right action.
In the same spirit, Taoism focuses on harmony with the Tao (the Way), advocating for living in balance with the natural order of the universe. The Taoist view of life’s constant flow and transformation aligns with a hopeful perspective, trusting in the natural unfolding of life and the possibility for renewal and peace.
Indigenous Spiritual Traditions agree with some truths to be found in these other paths of wisdom as I see them. Although indigenous belief systems are more localized, generally, they share a reverence for nature, for spirits, and for the interconnectedness of all life.
Search the foundational books and the oral traditions of all these world religions–the Bible, the Torah, the Quran, the Vedas, the Upanishads, the Bhagavad Gita, the Tripotaka, the Sutras, the Tao Te Ching, and the Zhuangzi--and you will discover that they are all deeply rooted in optimism, interconnectedness, and the power of personal growth. The wisdom of the world is that life is a web of connections–between nature, people, and the universe itself–moving outward in positive transformations.
I find comfort in knowing that the fire in me is in all, burning away the old in me, clearing space for new beginnings and transformation.
I find comfort in knowing that the rain that washes me washes all, rejuvenating, cleansing, nourishing, and purifying.
I find comfort in knowing that the wind that sweeps my face sweeps all, and elusive and unpredictable thought it might be, it blows in change, freedom, inspiration, and transformation.
I find comfort in knowing that the earth that anchors me anchors all, giving stability, permanence, and a connection to nature.
I find comfort in knowing that the life forces that live in me area are alive in everyone.
I find comfort in knowing that the life forces that surround in me are alive in all living things.
This is the Good News: in every faith, in every life, in every cloud, and in every clearing, there’s a silver lining. And that silver lining is universal. It’s hope. It’s renewal. It’s transformation. It’s better times ahead—for all of us. Together, one.
“We cannot solve our problems with the same thinking we used when we created them.”
–Albert Einstein (1879-1955; KNOWN FOR HIS MONUMENTAL CONTRIBUTIONS TO PHYSICS AND OUR UNDERSTANDING OF THE UNIVERSE WITH HIS THEORY OF RELATIVITY, E=MC².)
Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself,” a shocking celebration of sensuality and self, is one of my favorite literary works. I especially celebrate the spirit of the poem’s ending:
“I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love, If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.”
I can relate. Underyourboot-soles is exactly where you’ll find me after my time has come and my ashes are scattered.
Until then–hopefully far, far into the future–if you’re looking for me, you can find me outdoors, more likely than not weed whacking or working in one of my specimen garden beds.
Looking back, it seems to me that since early boyhood, I’ve been a wild child, outdoors communing with nature, usually in the garden, so much so that my family always knew where to find me. Even on the rare occasion when someone bruised my young, fragile feelings, I retreated quietly and without fail to the garden. My youngest sister’s high-pitched taunt still echoes in my ears as I recall stumbling over my lower lip while heading out the door:
“Nobody loves me, everybody hates me, going to the garden to eat worms.”
At that tender age, I learned that being outdoors comforted and healed. It is one of my most important lessons, ever. Emerson expresses with eloquence the truth that dwelt within my young boy’s soul:
“In the presence of nature, a wild delight runs through the man, in spite of real sorrows. Nature says, — he is my creature, and maugre all his impertinent griefs, he shall be glad with me” (“Nature,” 1836).
Down through the years, I’ve learned many other life-lessons in the garden, and from time to time, I’ve shared those lessons with you here.
Other posts about gardening can be found, too. If you unearth them, you will see that they all sprang up from the same celebratory soil. As we garden, we cultivate not just plants, but also the very qualities that enrich our lives: resilience, interconnectedness, patience, and mindfulness, reminding us to tend to our own growth and flourish in harmony with the world around us.
On the surface, it seems that I have nothing more to learn from gardening. However, as a lifelong learner, I know better. This spring, for example, I had a new epiphany while gardening. It wasn’t anything monumental upon which cults and sects are built. But it was significant enough that I want to share it with you.
I was working in an east-facing garden bed, running the full length of my home from the kitchen door, past the guest bedroom, the master bath, and the master bedroom.
The garden is 70 feet or so long and 30 feet or so wide. It begins with a small patio beside a waterfall cascading into the Koi Pond, and it ends with a towering granite Pagoda. Half-mooning its way between these two focal points is a flagstone walkway. On the narrow upper side is a bog garden, originally showcasing Pitcher Plants, Sundews, Bog Rosemary, Cardinal Flower, and Pond Sedge. On the wider side next to the house is a specimen garden with Clumping Bamboo across from the Koi Pond, a tall Hinoki Cypress, a Flowering Crabapple, a disappearing polished-stone fountain, an Alaskan Cypress, and a columnar White Pine.
It’s all that anyone would ever want a small garden to be.
But here’s the thing. When Allen and I put in the plants, we had no idea that the Pond Sedge, over time, would not only take over the bog garden but would also pop up in the specimen garden on the other side of the walkway. To make matters worse, we had no idea that the Clumping Bamboo would run wild all over the wide part of the garden.
It took many years before these two plants started popping up here, there, and everywhere. In fact, it wasn’t until this year that I had to own up to the harsh reality: the Pond Sedge and the Clumping Bamboo had invaded the garden so extensively that they threatened the well-being of the other specimen plants.
I bolted into action by mustering up my resolve to cut back all of the Pond Sedge and all of the Clumping Bamboo that had sprung up everywhere.
“There,“ I thought. “Not so bad after all.”
Wrong! It was worse than bad. Two weeks later, everything that I had cut back had popped up all over again, seemingly even stronger.
“Fine. I’ll cut it back again.”
In my mind, I thought that if I continually cut off the tops of the invasive plants, they would die because they would no longer have the source of their food supply.
Guess what? I was wrong once again. It’s now August, and I’m still cutting away the tops.
I’ve got options, of course, other than spectracides, which I loathe because of environmental impacts. I can put down barrier plastic, top it with mulch, and, eventually, the roots will die. Candidly, I don’t like that choice because I will be mindful that the roots are still there, lurking beneath the surface. That leaves me with one course of action: go ahead and do the back-breaking needful and dig up the roots now.
It’s sad, but it’s very true. I can cut back the tops over and over again, but the roots will still be there, not only spreading and intertwining but also running deeper and deeper.
As I tackled my gardening problem, I had a realization. To get rid of my invasive Clumping Bamboo and my invasive Pond Sedge, I have to get to the source of the problem. I have to find and remove the roots.
I chuckled–perhaps you will too–because I had not actually had a realization at all. I had simply had a gardening reminder of a concept that I learned decades ago.
You’re probably aware of it, too. But in case not, brace yourself. I’m not making this up. It’s a concept called Root Cause Analysis (RCA).
It’s not a new concept, either. Identifying underlying causes–root causes–dates back to ancient Greece, with philosophers like Aristotle who discussed the idea that fixing a problem requires identifying the fundamental causes.
Today, RCA is widely used across industries to find and resolve the underlying causes of problems, errors, and incidents, rather than just treating the symptoms. For instance, in healthcare, it’s used to analyze medical errors and improve patient safety by identifying systemic issues. In manufacturing, it helps pinpoint the causes of defects in production lines to enhance quality control. Similarly, in information technology, it’s employed to troubleshoot recurring system failures, ensuring long-term solutions rather than quick fixes.
If it works in industries, then it seems to me that it can have powerful applications in our personal lives as well. Actually, it seems to me that it can be applied to every area of life. It’s about digging deeper to uncover the true sources of our challenges rather than just addressing superficial symptoms. When we understand the root cause, we can make real, lasting changes.
Take health and well-being, for instance. When we feel run-down or stressed, it’s tempting to just blame it on a busy schedule. But what if there are deeper issues at play? Maybe it’s a lack of balance between work and rest, or perhaps unresolved emotional stress. By identifying the root causes of our health concerns, we can make more informed choices—whether that’s changing our lifestyle or seeking support—and improve our overall well-being.
Or what about our relationships with others? When tensions rise or communication breaks down, it’s often because we’re reacting to surface-level problems without understanding the deeper issues. Maybe there’s an unspoken fear or past hurt that’s influencing our actions. By addressing these underlying issues, we can build stronger, more authentic connections with those we care about.
We can even apply the concept to our professional lives to help understand why we’re not feeling fulfilled or why a project isn’t succeeding. Are we in the wrong role, or is there a lack of support in the workplace? Understanding the root causes of our career challenges allows us to take steps toward greater satisfaction and success.
On a broader scale, what about using the concept to tackle societal and environmental issues. Complex problems like poverty or climate change can’t be solved with quick fixes. They compel us to look at the underlying causes—like systemic inequality or unsustainable practices—and tackle them head-on. It’s only by understanding these root issues that we can create meaningful change.
Even in our spiritual lives, the concept can help us understand why we feel disconnected or adrift in our beliefs. Are there doubts or unresolved questions that need exploration? By examining the root of our spiritual struggles, we can embark on a journey toward deeper understanding and connection with our faith or spiritual practices.
These are just a few ways my gardening lesson of getting to the root of the problem can be a powerful tool for uncovering the truth behind life’s challenges. Whatever you are facing–and, at any given time, I’m confident that each of us is facing something that we want to fix or improve–I urge you to be determined enough and bold enough to go beyond the surface. But be forewarned. When we go beneath the surface into nooks and crannies where we’ve never gone, we find darkness darker than any we’ve ever experienced. But confronting the darkness in life is the only way that we can shine light on solutions that are not only effective but also lasting. Whether it’s our health, relationships, career, societal issues, or spirituality, dealing with the roots of our challenges allows us to live more intentional and fulfilling lives. Cheers to the hard work of digging deeper and making changes that truly matter in our lives.
I want to realize brotherhood or identity not merely with the beings called human, but I want to realize identity with all life, even with such things as crawl upon earth.
Mahatma Gandhi (1869-1948; Indian lawyer, politician, social activist, and writer; embraced nonviolent resistance; inspired movements for civil rights and freedom around the world)
The blacksnake and I friended the moment we first laid eyes on one another.
The early, dew-pearled spring morning remains as fresh in my memory as if it were yesterday. I had gone to my towering compost heap, bucket in hand, to retrieve some black gold. As I knelt at the base of its old, sweet-smelling richness, I suddenly sensed eyes. Someone or something was scrutinizing me. I was being watched. I could feel it deep in my bones. I looked all around me and saw no one. Then I lifted my eyes, and there on top of the compost heap was an incredibly beautiful, brilliantly glossy blacksnake, leaning over, looking down at me with its small eyes, its tongue darting, in red contrast to its white under chin, mellowing into soft yellow. I felt neither chill nor threat. I continued my task, all the while the two of us kept returning glances as if to make certain that we did not snap our nanosecond bond, perhaps never to connect again.
Surprisingly, the bond stretched and sunned itself over the summer. Even though I was always hoping to see my blacksnake–so much so that I often went looking for him–our encounters were sudden, unexpected ones.
Not long after our initial meeting, I was hard at work, planting a new specimen tree in the upper yard. The curly, contorted willow was already a large tree with a root ball that seemed far more immense when delivered than when purchased. By the time I dug the hole and positioned the tree, I was exhausted, but I still faced watering, backfilling, watering again, and mulching. Edging near tiredom, I walked a few steps to the nearby waterhose. Reaching down, I lifted with an intent to pull. In an instant, I realized that what I had in hand had no drag. I looked. There I stood holding in midair my blacksnake friend whom I had mistaken for my black water hose. It was my second one-on-one experience. Once again our eyes locked. But this meeting was more special than the first. Now we knew one another’s touch–warmth against cold, cold against warmth. I put the blacksnake down as casually as I had picked him up, and we each continued what we were doing. I could not see him, but I sensed that he watched from somewhere nearby as I finished planting the willow.
On another occasion, I had spent the better part of my day laying stone pavers for a short walkway through the garden bed outside my kitchen and building a low stone wall along the walkway’s meandering edge. The sunny day bordered on scorch. I sat on the walkway, leaned back into the flower garden, admiring my handiwork. As I gloated, a cold black stream soft-bellied itself across my sweaty outstretched arm. I looked back and my eyes met the eyes of my friend, the blacksnake. I remained motionless, holding my breath, hoping that the snake would stop, linger, and perhaps even explore. Instead he slithered on his way, calmly and unhurriedly.
My next visitation was perhaps my most unexpected and the most short lived. One summer evening, I had gone for a walk in the yard. When I went out, I didn’t consider turning on the outdoor lights. But darkness had fallen by the time I started back. I could see my way easily enough because the indoor lights were on, including those in the foyer. Even if the lights had not been on, I could have footed along without really looking. And that’s exactly what I did, that is until my hand clutched for the storm door and instead of an iron handle I felt a cold, smooth, muscular surface, pulsing to my touch. Only then did I look. The foyer light dimly illuminated my blacksnake friend, partially coiled around the door handle, upper body stretching toward the door top and lower body draping downward. I opened the door and went inside. My friend remained outside, leaving me to wonder whether he had hoped, for once, to be visitor in my world as I had been so often in his.
That rendezvous was the most fleeting. My fifth was the most lasting. As autumn started, my late partner Allen and I grew weary of removing fallen leaves from our Koi pond and cascading waterfalls. To make our task easier, we covered both with invisible black netting.
Our solution was perfect. The leaves floated on top of the netting instead of on top of the water. But the day came when our hearts sank as we discovered a scarlet red, black-faced cardinal struggling to escape the black netting’s grab. We lifted the netting to winged flight.
“So much for that brilliant solution,” we sighed simultaneously.
I rolled the netting into a ball, left it on the small patio beside the pond, and went back indoors to help Allen with dinner.
After dinner, I went back out to throw the netting away. Reaching down, I saw my blacksnake inextricably interwined in the ball.
Allen came out to see what I was doing.
“Look at what we’ve done. This is all our fault,” I lamented. “We have to get the snake out of the netting.”
“And just how do you plan to do that without getting bitten?”
“Go get some scissors, and I’ll show you what I have in mind.”
Allen came back out with a pair of surgical scissors that he was so skilled in using.
“I’ll get a hold of the snake just behind his head so that he can’t bite me, and you cut away and remove the netting.”
Ever so cautiously, I knelt and took gentle hold of the blacksnake behind his head. Allen starting cutting away at the netting, gradually freeing the snake’s tail.
As he snipped away more and more netting, the blacksnake began coiling his emerging body ever so slowly and calmly around my arm.
As Allen snipped, I gently rubbed my other hand against the snake’s skin, making certain that no black netting had been left behind.
Finally, the moment came when Allen finished. I remained kneeling on the patio with my blacksnake friend coiled entirely around my arm.
What was I to do now? I had not planned for this moment of release, this moment of letting go.
I stood up slowly, all the while watching my blacksnake friend watching me. It was as if he knew that Allen and I had rescued him. It was as if I knew that my friend would do me no harm.
I walked up to the bank beside the waterfalls, gently lowered my snake-coiled arm to the ground, and let go my grasp around the snake’s head.
Two, together, frozen in spirit and frozen in time, just for one second and one second only. In the next, our eternity melted. My blacksnake friend started uncoiling himself from around my arm, pausing to look back. Our eyes locked one last time before he slithered his way back into our world.
“Look deep into nature, and you will understand everything better.”
–Albert Einstein
Personally, I hate weeding! It’s tedious. It’s time consuming. It’s tiring. It’s never-ending. Absolutely. Never-ending.
I would much rather harness myself to a weed whacker, clearing great swaths of wilderness with every swing to my left, with every swing to my right, and with every step thrust frontward as I charge ahead to tame the untamable. I reckon a weed whacker is a reckoning force.
Yet, some folks (so I have been told) actually enjoy weeding. Apparently, they like to pull up weeds, one by one by one. Apparently, they never grow tired or weary of pulling up weeds, one by one by one. Their mantra? You guessed it: “One by one.”
My late partner, Allen, was one of those folks. He liked pulling up weeds and did so with the same care and precision that he used as a surgical technologist.
He would plan his weed work a week in advance. The conversation below shows how it all came to pass. I see no reason to say who’s saying what. The differing approaches to weeding–mine and Allen’s–are abundantly clear without naming either of us and without calling either of us names.
“Thank God! The weekend is nearly here. What would you like to do on Saturday?”
“Weed.”
“How about doing something fun? You really want to weed?”
“Yes. Weed. I just need some quiet time.”
“Well, okay. Sure. While you weed, I’ll weed whack. We’ll get a lot of yard work done.”
On reflection, I’m not certain that my part of the bargain provided quiet, especially since we usually played Gospel music in the background, full volume, while we worked in the yard. And when the music stopped, no problem. I would fill in by singing at full throttle the handful of words that I knew from some Gospel song that I liked, over and over and over and always painfully off key, though never deliberately so. Soon thereafter, Allen would slip inside and slip back out again, protected fully by his smartphone and earbuds. He never said a word.
But, hey. I’m no dummy. He made his point loud and clear. Quietly. Immediately. I got it. But since he was now listening to his own music with his own earbuds stuffed into his own ears, I just kept right on singing, as loudly and as off key as ever. It made me feel good. Besides, I take the Bible literally when it says, “Make a joyful noise.” And, equally important, I take folklore seriously, too: I have always heard that making noise while doing yard work keeps snakes away! So there! Even if indirectly, Allen still reaped the benefits of my singing: all the snakes disappeared into the woods, all except for the black snake that loved my off-key singing and slithered all around the yard to stay close to me, but that’s copy for a future post.
When it came to weeding, it was no big deal that Allen and I listened to different music while applying different weeding methods. Working together, we always accomplished a lot within four or five hours.
I mowed down an acre or so, and I was covered from head to toe with vestiges of grass and leaves and dust. But, hey! I got my weekly weed whacking joy.
Allen removed every single, solitary weed from an established flower bed, perhaps 20 feet by 15 feet, and, sometimes even refreshed the mulch. He would be drenched in perspiration, with muddy jeans from butt to hem. But, hey! He got his weekly weeding joy.
Inevitably, as we admired what we had achieved individually and collectively, we would mutually agree to a quick shower (individually, not collectively) and a backroad drive (collectively, not individually) to a farmers’ market, followed by lunch!
The after-joy of weeding and weed whacking meant as much to us (collectively and individually) as the actual joy itself.
Since Allen’s death, though, I have often wondered what those treasured weeding days meant…to him. What was it that he experienced deep down inside?
Recently, I decided to re-create, as nearly as possible, one of Allen’s typical Saturday weeding days.
I won’t bore you with all the pre-weeding details, like getting up at 4am, reading the New York Times and Washington Post, both online, cup of coffee in hand.
Or, having leftovers for breakfast, from dinner the night before.
Or, putting on bluejeans and a favorite flannel shirt–plaid, with sleeves far too short–and always a baseball cap from somewhere memorable like Geneva Falls, NY.
And I’ll not mention heading out to start weeding almost always at exactly 7:30am.
Those were the things that Allen did. So I’ll skip right over all those details and commence with Allen’s weeding tools.
A black plastic yard bag, for sitting and kneeling. An old dull kitchen knife for cutting out the roots of each weed. And a yard basket for collecting the weeds and their roots. And, yes: no gloves. He liked his fingers and hands to be one with the soil.
That was it. A simpler array of tools for such a noble task cannot be imagined.
Sometimes, as he weeded, it was as if he were descending into the earth that he tended, rising up from time to time, carrying to the compost pile the red yard basket filled to the brim with weeds and their roots. And so the cycle continued–descending, rising, and carrying–until he was done for the day.
That was it. A simpler approach to such a noble task cannot be imagined.
On my appointed day for re-enacting Allen’s day of weeding, I did not need to think about method or tools or pre-weeding activities. All those were so ingrained in my memory, my heart, and my soul that everything fell into place naturally.
My morning–this past Saturday, in fact–started with cool temps in the mid fifties, gradually warming to the upper seventies. A mix of clouds and sun. A gentle breeze. Low humidity. Just right.
As soon as I positioned myself with intentionality on my black plastic bag, I felt grounded–no pun intended. I knew that I had sat down exactly where I chose to sit. I knew that I had no where else that I wanted to be. I knew that I had no where else that I wanted to go. “In the moment” vibrated with new meaning.
And then I felt totally in control. I knew that I could do as much or as little as I chose to do. I knew that I need move no further in any direction than the limits of my reach. Suddenly, I no longer felt overwhelmed by the enormity of totality. I could sit right where I sat, forever and forever and forever, and work my own postage stamp of mountain earth.
To my surprise–and, again, with no pun intended–I could smell the coffee that my neighbor higher up on the mountain was brewing, and I could nearly taste the bacon that he was frying. Closer to home, I could smell the lilac in my upper yard, just beginning to perfume the air, but even now its purply fragrance was so heavy that it nearly took my breath away.
To my great surprise, I could hear tractor trailers racing seventy miles an hour up and down the interstate, their roaring engines muffled to a monotonous drone by ten miles or so of puffy clouds and winding river. Closer still, I could hear the chirping of robins, never alone, always calling one to the other, always with the other returning the song.
And I could hear and feel the rustle of dry decay as my hands grabbed and bagged leaves from yesteryear. I could even hear the blue buzz of a horse fly as it circled my head, and, more joyous by far, the whir of a ruby-throated hummingbird–my first of the season–as it helicoptered all around me with quizzical uncertainty, darting deliberately, continuing to hover nearby, singing its high-pitched chips.
To my greater surprise, I started seeing things at the granular level. The grit in the soil. The veins in the weeds. The spidery whiteness of roots. The leaves and blooms on nearby plants. The house looming ever so large above my grounded perspective. The trees towering above the house. The clouds and sky arching over all, including me.
To my greatest surprise, one hour slipped into two. Two melted into three. Three faded into four. Four, into forever.
By then, the sharp, cutting edge of my morning angst had become as smooth as well-worn marble stairs.
By then, my hope had heightened beyond my reach, stretching as far into the future as my senses could carry me.
By then, I had experienced deep down in the inner recesses of my soul what Allen had experienced in his.
The Wired Researcher 