These days, I find so much comfort in our little patio garden.
The fence is lined with an almost absurdly colorful explosion of gerber daisies, impatiens, vincas, and roses, and the raised beds are filled with heaps of basil and oregano. The gangly overgrown sage that produces far more than we ever use and is always encroaching on the scraggly sparse thyme. The graceful purple-blossomed garlic makes up for the lavender that never seems to bloom, and when the wind blows, the scent of peppermint fills the patio.
The plants wilt without water, as sure as we wilt without beauty, and I drink it all in, remembering that not so long ago this space was just an ugly bare slab of concrete.
We plant and we sleep and we rise. We weed and we water but we don't know how it happens. We go to sleep and we wake up to find that morningtime and harvest emerge from the dark unknown.
And lately when I'm discouraged, I slip out for a moment into this unruly patch of bountiful order, and breathe the scent of hope.
A sonnet for St. Benedict
5 days ago