I can’t garden the way I’d like to here at the homestead because the soil is full of rocks and just plain difficult to work. Add to that the arthritis in my hands and wrists, and I have many gardening ideas I can’t fulfill.
But I wanted to make the place more attractive to pollinators, butterflies and hummingbirds, so I planted half a pound of wildflower seeds in various spots on the east and southeast sides of the house in early May—annuals that would give me the big splashes of color I was looking for.
Wildflowers don’t ask for much. They can grow in poor soil and don’t even need a lot of water once they reach four to six inches of height.
I prepped the soil the best I could, scattered the seeds and hoped this wouldn’t turn out to be a waste of time.
It wasn’t. Six weeks later, I had “mini meadows” coming to life everywhere.
Little bursts of baby’s breath were the first to appear, followed soon by hundreds of cornflowers in a vibrant blue that made me swoon the moment I first saw it.
From there it was a new surprise almost every morning. Sunny coreopsis, forget me nots, cosmos in shades of wine, orchid and white.
Even rose mallow, a morning-glory-like bloom I’d never seen before.
One morning in early July, I meditated beside the largest of the meadows—with my eyes open. We’re taught to close our eyes when we meditate to quiet the mind. The flowers and colors elicited sensations of peace and gratitude so easily and naturally that I decided to meditate in a different way. I gave voice to those feelings in my mind and my heart.
The peace of deep blue.
The peace of lavender.
The peace of soft greens.
The peace of the wind.
The peace of the blue sky.
God’s peace in everything I see.
And so began a simple meditation that made me feel happy and grateful to be alive there by the little meadow I had made.
I meditated there nearly every morning in the month of July. One morning as I was looking at the coreopsis nodding in the faint breeze, sadness crept into my heart. I said to myself, “I’m really going to miss this meadow.” Feelings of gratitude and peace were replaced with thoughts of withering and dying wildflowers, then an empty patch of ground, then winter and cold. For some reason—maybe because I have always looked ahead too much and worried about the what if’s—I couldn’t shake the sadness of what was to come. It took over my meditation that morning.
About an hour later, I thought back to something I’d read a few years back in Eckhart Tolle’s book The Power of Now.
“Your entire life only happens in this moment. The present moment is life itself.”
The sadness left, and something became simply and beautifully clear to me.
The wildflowers are here right now. In this moment. Every moment I spend worrying about losing them is a moment of present beauty surrendered to worry, to a season that is still far away. A season I have no way of knowing exactly or ever.
The wildflowers are here right now. Be still with them. Take them in. Pray in their presence. Love them. Everything is perfect here in the meadow in this moment. The only moment we actually have.
It brings to mind this meditation:
Gratitude for seeds.
Gratitude for rain.
Gratitude for sunshine.
Gratitude for these flowers.
Gratitude for this meadow.
Gratitude for this moment. This perfect moment.
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