“Some say that a garden just grows from seeds, but we think it grows from trying and failing and trying again. A garden is hard work, but so is most of the good, important stuff in life.” – Joanna Gaines, We Are the Gardeners
I have come to the borders of sleep, The unfathomable deep Forest where all must lose Their way, however straight, Or winding, soon or late; They cannot choose.
–Edward Thomas (1878-1918) from his poem, “Lights Out”
My mother died at the end of December. It was not completely unexpected. She was 93 years of age. She lived a long life, a good life, but had been in declining health for some time.
Hope is a thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the song without the words And never stops at all.
-Emily Dickinson
Each day I come to the mat, there is the expectation that I will feel better for having practiced yoga. It could be ten uninterrupted minutes or a 45-minute class via Zoom. The amount of time matters less than showing up. Physically, my back may be stiff from too much shoveling. Emotionally, I may be feeling overwhelmed, tense, or anxious. No matter the starting point, when I leave the mat, I am stronger, calmer, and more balanced.
I’m writing this in front of a campfire at the South Branch Pond campground in Baxter State Park. It is one day after the fall equinox, a cool, clear evening. The stars are dazzling. The moon is waxing. My partner, Stephen, and I are on our annual Baxter trip.