Friday, July 01, 2011

Too much...

The yard has been an utterly amazing discovery.  Humbling in a very real sense, for I mourned the loss of my rose bushes when I sold my home.  The stone crop, too.  I had those plants with me since Minnesota, having finally put them in the ground in my first home.  But in many ways that was a house not a home.

The jury is out, still, if this will be a home.  However, it is a place that has become an absolute refuge to me.  All about me is beauty.  [Especially now that those wretched blue walls are covered.]  All about me is a home I have dreamed about since I was a little girl.  And I step outdoors and cannot help but be reminded that my Good Shepherd loves me.  The ferns alone declares this to be so.  But, to date, I have identified: three varieties each of lilies and tulips, crocus, two each of daffodils, yarrow, columbine, bleeding heart, rhododendron, forsythia, five varieties of roses, lilac, lavender, hyacinth, hydrangea, hostas, ferns, moss, alum, an ornamental pear tree, an ornamental magnolia tree, a red bud tree, two evergreen trees, grape vine, honeysuckle, holly bush, two evergreen bushes, verbena, two more unidentified flowering bushes, four more unidentified flowers.

The day I arrived at this house, I walked about the yard, completely oblivious of the wonder I would behold in the months to come.

I dare say I have joined the Lutheran Confession completely oblivious of the wonder I would behold...though...the elusiveness of the sweet, sweet Gospel for me has been a trial of its own.

One of the beds in the yard, the one directly across from the back steps, was an herb garden.  Long neglected, it was full of spearmint that was also growing into the yard.  One day, after torrential rains, I dug up the spearmint, gave some away, and threw out the rest.  It is exceedingly invasive.  The empty bed has bothered me ever since.

The hostas came up in this tiny narrow strip of a flower bed along the side of the house.  They were crowded and constantly being sat upon by my puppy dog.  Yesterday, I took my frustration over my innards out upon the soil and dug up those hostas, with the aim of filling up the empty bed.  I have no funds for the yard, but I could dig, separate, and replant.

I ended up setting the hostas into 17 new locations, as well as dividing the lavender bush into five sections, moving a dozen ferns (three that were growing in sidewalk cracks), and spreading the six bags of mulch I bought.  In part, this meant addressing the side of the house I never see, but knew was there...a lonely, empty bed full of weeds.  I removed the weeds, double dug the bed, and planted three of the lavender sections and set eight of the hostas there.  Now, the side of the house I do not see is as beautiful as the rest of the yard.  Now, the back bed I stare at as I await Amos as he tends to his business is not longer this problem waiting to be addressed.  Now, the ferns that were languishing beneath the wretched (no longer there) trumpet vine have been re-set, fertilized, and mulched.

Actually, the labor lasted but four hours.  However, I was stumbling about the last hour and was barely standing once I finished.  I also was already hurting so much I downed copious amounts of ibuprophen the moment I came back inside.  It was too much work for me, even though, in doing it, the yard is essentially done.  All the overgrown, long neglected items have been addressed ( more bush needs pruning, but since I can live with it being a tad overgrown, I am waiting until next spring).  I have closure on one more thing in my life.  One more thing has been wrestled and tamed.  I am the one in control and in achieving that control I can sit back and savor this gift of my Good Shepherd.

Still, it was too much work.  Some how, some way, I should have garnered help.  Only, well, that is not really an option with my friends, new and old, who all live out of town.  The two I have made here are not really ones who would roll up their sleeves and get dirty with me.  Besides, I would never ask.  Ever.  I would not even, truly, hope.  I would--and do--simply tend to my own problems. [Now, if Bettina were here, I would hint profusely!]

So much of what I have done is almost like readying the house to sell again.  You would be impressed, I believe, in the difference between the day I walked into this place and how it is today (except for the vacuum cleaner that has been sitting on the living room floor for a week).  I have spent entire weeks on the couch.  I have spewed more food in the past six months than in the past six years, the past twenty.  I have barely been able to walk.  I have been curled up in a ball in grief.  But, in between those moments, I have cleaned, scraped, sanded, painted, organized, pruned, raked, transplanted, and worked to reveal the potential of this absolutely beautiful home.

It has been too much.  Too much work and too much joy.  Strange, eh?

I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

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