"Do you have a Sabbath Moment story yet?" My friend asks.

"No, not yet." (I bristle, a little irritated about being asked.) "Besides, it's only Sunday morning," I explain.

"Shouldn't you get focused?" I feel a scolding coming on... and a little anxiety seeping in.

"Yes. I suppose. Thanks for the reminder," on the edge of sarcasm. 

 

But here's the deal: It's a perfect summer day here--mid 70's and my dance card is already crowded (including duties to complete before my morning flight takes me from my garden for the week). I'm mowing the lawn (which I enjoy, and yes, I call it exercise), cleaning the side borders, grinning at the new Alstroemeria blossoms, a cheery and bright butter yellow and the prodigal English roses, and futzing with the pond and waterfall. Which begs the question: do I really need to write a Sabbath Moment?

 

It's Garden Tour weekend here on Vashon Island. Five private gardens open for meandering, gawking and note taking, all mingled with a healthy dose of envy and self-doubt. It's the double-edged sword of any garden tour--awe inspiring with a boatload of new ideas, accompanied by the weight of incrimination. (Some people begin the tour in good spirits, and return home muttering a prayer to whomever will listen; "Please tell me why I even try?" Lord, the grief we give ourselves.)

 

There are talks at each garden, to support and assist. Each year I give one. Yesterday I gave a talk about "Creating an English Garden in the Pacific Northwest." Not to jettison suspense, but there's little expert advice needed here. Bottom line: English gardens are a fusion of wonder and enchantment and magic and abundance. Or, as Vita Sackville West writes, "a sense of profusion within severe lines." You know... that's not a bad metaphor for our lives.

 

True, severe is a grim adjective--setting the mind in motion and reminding me of my childhood religion when God seemed everlastingly irritated.

 

But Vita is right on.

 

Do you know the research about children playing on school playgrounds? At one particular elementary school, there was a big fence around the perimeter, and the students would play using the entire playground, including clambering on this big fence. As the story goes, "child experts" (toting expert advice) were brought in (after all, we can't have all of this clambering). Their assessment, "The big fence will make the kids feel trapped psychologically, and it needs to be taken down."

 

Are you ready for this? As soon as the school took down the fence, the kids--instead of playing all over the playground--huddled by the school door.

So. The school did the right thing. They put the fence back up, and the kids felt free to explore the entire area again.   

What a wonderful irony: A boundary allows for fearless exploration and freedom.

 

This has also been a week to hear stories that make my heart hurt. Conversations with real people, real lives; real stories about life's vicissitudes. And I understand. What it means to be overwhelmed. Suffocated. Or on the edge. Literally. These are not stories to compare as if one or the other is worse. There is no scale of sorrow.  In each case, the person needed a listening ear, and a dose of unvarnished grace.

 

I often tell people, "Be gentle with yourself."

However, we don't cut ourselves much slack do we?

Here's a thought: is it possible that this "boundary" can be severe mercy? Meaning that mercy becomes a place for exploration and freedom?

Profusion within severe lines indeed...

 

It makes me wonder whether we trust our own goodness.

Because deep down I know that people tell me their story because there's a shortage (or an absence) of mercy in their lives. They don't need answers or advice. They--as do we all--need the boundary of grace.

 

Back at the garden tour--I'm in the garden of Hope Bloesch, a transplanted Australian, with paths meandering through profusion--where I told the group to give their inner garden critic the day off. It's okay to try at this "gardening with profusion" and really screw up. Why? Because there is no contest here. Gardening is about being present. In this life. Embracing the present moment can happen while we are observing, drinking in, and enjoying. Times for letting the magic and grace happen.

 

So. It turns out that I had a story after all... I'll have to let my friend know.  Even so, I'm headed back out to the garden. It's still light here, on this first day of summer.
I go to my garden to let the cares of the day dissipate.

I go to my garden to listen to my heart.

I go to the garden to regain my soul.

I go to my garden to hear the voice of grace.

 

...the courage and fundamental human competence to taste the full flower of every particle of life, and to respond with absolutely fierce risking-trust to what is needed to every moment. Gerald May