I once lived long enough to know that they don’t. I’ve now lived long enough to know that they do.
That odd, inexplicable events happen, and happen daily, is evident to anyone paying attention. The shame is that so few of us pay attention to the natural world, missing the rhythms and the mysteries that envelop our modern minds every moment.
Today is All Saints Day, to celebrate the sanctified among us, as though following some moral order could save us from the coming dark, a world in which wasp larvae eat hornworms from the inside out, and we die monstrous deaths lying in ICUs with multiple tubes piercing our bodies, hoping for St. Sebastian to save us.
Death on the edge of the Delaware Bay.
The question of ghosts is not an idle one. We follow the spirits of our own making, the rules and rhythms of our daily lives, wrapping ourselves in a sad cocoon of hubris, wiling away our hours fulfilling nothing more than deadlines upon deadlines without a hint of irony.
The sunrise this morning is glorious, again. I ambled out barefoot to catch the deep red light, past the old maple with the scattered shells of clams raked and eaten. The early November light reminded me of those I have loved and who died anyway..
The clams are a reminder of two things worth being reminded of as : we are part of something larger than us, and we are mortal.
The clams under the maple tree, reminders of what is given to us freely, and what is taken away.
The dead are among us today. The dead are among us every day.THe
The rich dirt still gives the way it usually does–a slight resistance before the earth yields to my finger, poking a hole into the garden ground again. I’ve done it thousands and thousands of times, and each time brings me joy.
Pea plant rising from the earth.
We eat from the garden–last night it was frozen tomatoes and fresh basil. (The basil is under lights in the basement, sitting in pots filled with dirt from the garden, which will be returned to the garden.)
Decent dirt has a heady aroma, difficult to describe if you do not pay attention to dirt, but a smell any gardener will tell you is enough to get us on our knees. Soil is complex, it is alive, and it is grace.
Winter radishes
We are in trouble, partly because of a virus too new for us to handle, mostly because we’ve forgotten we come from the garden. The story of Adam and Eve (and it is, of course, an old story, told by humans about humans) is a cautionary tale for our times.
We fool ourselves into thinking we can control the garden–our “economy” is based on consumption, on lifeless dirt fertilized with synthetic chemicals produced in a furnace in a process invented by the same man who developed chlorine gas for warfare.
Heaven is found not in the empty sky but in the teeming loam under our feet. If we remembered where we come from, we would not be dumping milk down the drain and crushing tons of beans for mulch as suddenly destitute families face hunger and empty shelves.
November tomato from the garden
A couple of days ago the peas I dropped into the holes my fingers poked into the ground (I did nothing more than that) broke through the earth. The leaves are headed heavenward, but so are the roots. The earth, the air, the rain, and the light will coalesce to form more peas.
I can eat the peas, I can sell them, I can let them fall to waste, but what I cannot do is make them. I pray a lot in the garden, sometimes out of desperation on a bad day, but in recognition of grace on the good days.
If God is only in a few of us, God is in none of us. If God is in some of us, God is in all of us.
Honey bee on our rosemary plant in late January 2020.
I saw a couple of honey bees in the rosemary yesterday. I heard them before I saw them.
It had rained hard just an hour earlier, and the rosemary flowers were soaked, making it difficult for the bees to gather much nectar. One looked particularly frustrated.
Their bee bodies were sleek, not covered with the pollen found on them in the summer. Not much blooming in January–rosemary, a few dandelions, not much else.
Still, the bees were out, and I was out, and I was curious about them, and one was (mildly) curious about me until she realized I was not a threat. Then she went back to work.
If God is in some of us, God is in all of us. And if God is in all of us, God is in the bees as well.
This is only sacrilegious if you anthropomorphize God. (It may be sacrilegious to anthropomorphize bees, too, but I do not know enough about religion, or God, or bees to say with much authority.)
If you go outside, even in January, you will be surprised.
The shells of clams I have raked, cooked, and eaten. December 2019
On the way home from school on Friday, I saw a woman about my age look a little hesitant as I passed her. I said hello and walked on, but got stopped by a couple of my former students, and we chatted about robots (an upcoming robot competition), music (one had a gig that night at a local fund raiser), and whatever else was going on in their lives at the moment. Kids lead a lot more interesting lives than many adults I know.
The woman watched me chat, then, figuring I was safe, asked me if I knew where the Church on the Green was. I pointed it out–it was right across he street–then we got to chatting. Strangers on the street lead a lot more interesting lives than we know unless we ask.
She was looking for a food pantry that had Alimentum, a special formula for babies that are allergic to milk. It’s hard to find Alimentum in food pantries, and even harder at stores if you lack cash. She had just gotten custody of her great grand-daughter, had an appointment for WIC in three weeks, but in the meantime she needed to find Alimentum.
I embarrassed her by offering what little cash I was carrying, but after some back and forth I convinced her take it. She made it clear to me that she was not homeless and was not looking for anything from me.
I knew as much. I know a little bit about Alimentum from my years as a pediatrician, and a lot more about how we care for children in this land, a lesson I learned well practicing medicine.
A rosemary in January will share nectar with another species, but if you lack cash or credit, your human baby may well go hungry until she is “in the system.”
Granny’s crucifix made of Irish bogwood, now mine. She saw Saints, I once did, too.
