The garden teaches us wholeness. We are not separate from the earth. Molded from nothing and filled with the breath of God, we and the earth are both a part of the body of Christ. When we walk on the ground, we are walking on Christ’s back. When we breathe the air around us, we are inhaling Christ’s breath. We are, in every moment of every day, in perfect unity with the God who created us and who sustains us moment by moment with the divine life and love.
Gardening is itself a prayer. There are moments in the garden where everything in creation seems to be in sync. The gentle play of light on the tulip illuminates the web of soft undertones on its pinky white skin, and that same skin shines with an iridescence that cries out in praise to the Creator. At such moments, I feel humbled and awed to have been chosen to participate in the revelation of such aching beauty.
As every gardener knows, there are also moments of agony and longing in the garden. And not only when the deer eat the buds off of the roses just before their first bloom. There are also the long, dormant months of winter when the ground is frozen, the landscape bare, and the only sustenance of color comes from stacks of seed catalogues and memories of spring. At such moments I am as much a gardener as I ever was. My winter garden is a garden of hope and longing, and I remember that longing is a true and deep kind of love.
Such moments as these remind me that the earth and I are not separate at all. Rather, the earth is as much a vehicle for conversion and redemption as are my relationships with my brothers in the monastery. In the garden I am revealed to myself. My humble desire to praise the creator with the work of my hands and my self-serving, iron-hard will to have my way at all costs grow together like so much wheat and weeds.
In his beautiful book of gardening meditations, Inheriting Paradise, Vigen Guroian tells the story of the Armenian genocide during World War I. A group of Armenian men were sent on a forced march to their death. During this march a priest named Ashod leads the men in swallowing the dry, parched earth as their Eucharist. Guroian sees in this story a reminder that “we belong to the earth and that our redemption includes the earth from which we and all the creatures have come, by which we are sustained, and through which God continues to act for our salvation.” (p. 12)
So it is with our work in the garden. We gardeners are privileged to participate in the great sacrament, Being itself. We are midwives of the unfolding creation. In allowing us this privilege, God reveals to us at deeper and deeper levels our unity with ourselves, one another, the whole creation, and, of course, God. Christ invites us into the heavenly garden, and we can see, if only for a moment, the shining oneness of all things. Such moments are deeply healing. They are why I garden.
Never miss a post. Click on the menu icon in the upper right of this page and enter your e-mail address to receive a notification when I post each week. I will not share your contact information.
6 Replies to “midwives of the creation”
Hello Br.Will, you can hear Vigen Guroian talk about those experiences with Krista Tippett in a wonderful OnBeing podcast titled;”Awakening the Senses, Gardening and Orthodox Easter”. Thank you for your blog!
I’ve heard that episode. It’s very good. Thanks for reading!
you have elevated my consciousness this morning, and i will attend to my gardens today with a more tender heart. thank you.
May your gardens tend you as well.
Thanks, Brother Will, for managing an inspiring retreat.
And thank you for your hard work!