Strawberry Fields Forever
Listen here:
When I was a little girl and lived in rural North Carolina my family had a vegetable garden, maybe about half the size of a football field. Nights and weekends my dad and I would go out to plant, prune, weed, water, and harvest.
During those hours in the field, Dad taught me about intuiting the signs of seasons; the hard work of preparing space for things to grow; the patient but active waiting needed as the seeds progressed through their life cycle. He taught me about the joy of being held by the trees’ canopy of shade; the delight of seeing vegetables sprout from the abundant earth; the exhaustion of bending over in the noon-day sun; the sweetness of a strawberry between my lips.
But what I remember most about those nights and weekends were the quiet, mostly unspoken, conversations. I remember my dad holding my hand in his as he showed me how to plant a seed and the seed showed me how life is transformed by loving conditions; the way he would wipe sweat and dirt from my face with his shirt and how the earth would wipe away my isolation; how I could rest my head in my dad’s lap to look at the sky after a long day's work and how the setting sun called us to rest.
We were caring for our human relationship as much as we were being cared for by the garden. It has been a long time since my dad and I worked that little plot of Carolina soil, but the seeds that were planted all those years ago continue to grow and bear fruit.
How have you learned about seasons and cycles of life? Reflect and listen to what emerges.
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