Beyond Spring

As I wander about my garden in this season of renewal, my heart sings whenever I find a green friend who has returned for yet another year.

Each autumn I wonder if all will survive the long cold months, as they wither and die and winter buries their remains under the snow.

Of course, our little half acre does not resemble the "conventional" modern garden.

What began five years ago as neatly-trimmed lawn with ornamental shrub islands, kept weed-free by soil-souring plastic, featuring garden gnomes, wishing wells and – yes – even a windmill; is now a semi-wild montane glade, returning to its natural state as quickly as Mother Nature reclaims it.

Each year native species re-establish themselves as the weed-poisons applied to eradicate them are washed away by our West Coast rains. I welcome each newcomer with joy and greet the old regulars with equal pleasure as they reappear in the spring.

By the end of the growing season the comfrey will be ten feet tall, the thistles nearly as high, and the nettles guarding the hawthorn will reach out to sting me if I wander too near. I am amazed at the energy nature expends each year on leaves, stems and flowers, transient growth that "today is, and tomorrow is not."

At the same time this riot of green life is producing splendour in the grass, there is another sort of growth going on in the garden. This growth seems invisible because whilst it cannot readily be seen with the eye, it is the greatest increase in the entire garden. Beside our little house grows a huge, ancient cedar tree. I do not know how old this tree is; but it is, perhaps, hundreds of years old.

Each year, without fanfare or fancy flowering, the cedar grows. It grows a bit taller, the ends of the branches extend a little farther, and the girth of the trunk expands a quarter inch or so. If I were to tie a cord around the trunk, in five years – or ten – the tree would grow around the cord, incorporating the alien material into itself. Short of measuring the cedar each year, this is really the only way to see it grow.

As I consider this silent, unnoticed growth, I wonder about my own growth. Each year we take the time to examine our lives on certain dates such as birthdays, New Year's, and the beginning of each season. Those of us who lead examined lives consider who we are, where we have been, and who we are becoming. I often judge my progress, or lack thereof, by the things easily noticed and measured. Things easily seen and weighed, however, may not be the gauges of true growth. Just as I do not see or note the annual growth of the cedar, so I may overlook the annual growth of my own deepest nature.

Years ago I was privileged to work in a care home with elders. Over time I began to see that as we age we become more and more like ourselves. By this I mean that when we are younger, more flexible, and desirous of acceptance; we try to conform ourselves to the expectations of others. We are able to spare the time and energy to keep up appearances. As we age we have less time and energy for this and, if we are at-heart not who we appear to be, our true nature begins to emerge.

I noticed the elders were very completely themselves. If they were kind, they were kind clear through, and if they were mean, they were mean to the bone. Contemplating this, I saw I had a choice. I could direct my energy towards growing showy, transient qualities such as charm and physical beauty, or I could grow the enduring qualities of compassion and courage, patience and love.

Physical beauty, charm, wit, material goods, all are like the flowers of the field that "today are, and tomorrow are not." Love, patience, courage and compassion are like the great trees, forest giants growing slowly but surely and enduring forever. Growing into one's true and best nature takes time. Sometimes it seems that nothing is happening, but if we continue to grow towards the light we shall, finally, find we have grown like the great cedars ... tall, straight, and true-hearted; offering refuge to many.

Beyond Spring copyright © 2003 by Tira Brandon-Evans, CH, FS, all rights reserved, used with permission.

By Tira Brandon-Evans