by Theresa Cobb

Created on: May 21, 2009   Last Updated: October 26, 2009

Bare hands dig down into the soil that, two years ago, used to be a smelly, messy manure mound. After sitting in the sun for two summers, soaking in the rains, enduring a couple of long, gray, cold winters and hiding under heavy blankets of snow, the whole pile is now well composted. Lifting a heavy handful to my nose, I revel in the warm aroma, breathing in the promise of life and all its richness. To the true gardener there is no sweeter smell. Earthworms wriggle through my fingers trying to find their way back home. The time is right, it's ready and for my soul, it's heartwarming to know that nature can take two years of leftovers, throwaways and undesired consequences and turn it into a living, breathing, vital foundation for this year's anticipated harvest.

As my hands continue to scoop the rich compost into buckets, a realization begins to form; as it goes with the garden, so it goes with the human spirit and last year's waste is this year's foundation of faith. In truth, it doesn't matter what it was suppose to be, or what I had hoped for, once upon a time. It doesn't matter that it used to be beautiful or ugly or what unfulfilled pledge was held within it's biological structure. Each passing moment has touched the next. Each step taken before has led to this day and without all the manure, the kitchen waste or the castaways from last years garden, none of this beautiful black gold would be here today.

Nature's hand had a plan all along. The march of time turned all that once was into mineral rich fertilizer. Last year's harvest, my life, my plans, my relationships may not be what I expected, but each event led to the next. Death, dressed in all it's euphemisms advanced upon my world covering hope unseen beneath dark gray wintry blankets. Thankfully, nothing remained stagnant and though winter's snows brought chill and dismay, change was already underway. Then, as if on cue, life began to warm my being. All that once was, was changed into something worthwhile and this ordination, in turn, changes me forever. If I choose to surrender, seeds will be planted, some planned, some by accident and without prejudice, once again, dreams will spring forth with renewed vigor and hope will once again be in full bloom.

I smile to myself while pondering this truth. Gardening is a natural, living exercise in faith that will continue to heal my spirit, year after year. As I move on to spreading and preparing the garden beds for what lies ahead, my two year-old granddaughter arrives and and with eager resolve, swiftly sets about digging her hands into my buckets; searching for earthworms and other crawly things. My mind wanders back to the day, not so long ago, when my daughter had tearfully confided in me she was pregnant. Alone and unmarried, the disappointment was harsh and cruel. Her hopes were dashed, her dreams waylaid. But now, two years later, so much promise, so much love, lives in every day. Then, in this moment, this ever so quiet, uneventful moment, I concede, as my heart swells, I am so very thankful for yesterday's manure. For even the novice gardener is soon taught that nothing is permanent; healing and joy is always imminent.

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