The cardinal song at break of dawn. The chickadee joined in and in a sheltered corner of the garden the first green spears of daffodils peaked out at the rising sun.
The garden still lies dormant but deep within the heart of the mother the roots begin to stir and stretch and the sap begins its upward movement through the trunks of the trees and into every twig and branch in defiance of the law of gravity.
I wonder along the narrow, rock lined paths of the garden in the late winter sun light and dream of the profusion yet to come.
Even in winter gardens are sanctuaries, sacred space whose perimeters create a tangled boundary between the mayhem of the everyday world and a place of respite for the weary soul.
A garden is a place where it is possible to regrow the life sustaining cord that connects us to the good earth. It is a place where, like the vegetation we can plunge the roots of our souls deep down into the land and draw up the sap of spiritual nourishment.
In the very conscious act of placing our spiritual roots in the natural world we find a deep sense of belonging, of being part of the sacred way of life.
So has it been since my earliest memories and so it shall be, for I myself have became the earth.