Today was an appointment day, and even though I knew that and was prepared for all the ways that factors into the day, still I experienced moments of unrest and frustration; not with my girls, just with the ways of the world and, well, the other drivers on the road (this frustration rose with each driver who opted to cut in front of me as I made our way to my youngest’s appointment). To put it mildly, traffic is pretty much my kryptonite. But, if driving and traffic are my kryptonite, words are the balm to calm and heal my weakened soul.
And so, after we arrived at our destination and the youngest was in her session and the oldest was ensconced in her artwork and music, I heaved a sigh, or several, and dug out the Mary Oliver poetry book I stuck in my bag at the last minute as we headed out the door—A Thousand Mornings. Book in hand, opened it with a sense of anticipation and even alertness, aware there was power in the words on each page. I let my fingers trace across the page even before I looked at the word, absorbing the physical presence of something soothing. Books can do that for me.
Walking through the words of another writer, like poet Mary Oliver, inspires such wonder and reminds me to take time to pause, to look around, and to drink in the details of the natural world. I steeped my weary soul in the images Oliver’s words created, picturing myself in each moment, each word-picture of nature she set before me with her carefully crafted words. In the quiet of the moment, my oldest working away beside me, I could hear Oliver’s voice reading her words to me, urging me to breathe deeply and rest in the words of her poem, The Gardener. Especially her closing lines:
Then I step out into the garden, / where the gardener, who is said to be a simple man, / is tending his children, the roses.
Immediately my soul released the tension of the drive as not only Oliver’s gardener appeared, but another Gardener came to mind. He, too, was said to be a simple man, and I closed my eyes and was transported to His Garden, the one where He prayed so fervently the sweat of His brow was blood. My mind shifted and I took hold of His peace, suddenly reminded of how grateful I felt.
How can one not be grateful in the midst of such breathtaking beauty? The beauty nature offers and the beauty the Creator provides me.
I’d like to say that the drive home was better because of this moment, but it wasn’t. Still, I held fast to the poems I had read, returning to The Gardener and to the Gardener and desperate to hold onto the peace from only a short time before starting the drive home. It seemed but a wisp of smoke at that point as I navigated around other drivers and the heavy traffic. Still, my mind whispered my ongoing favorite words from Psalm 23, grasping for the green meadow, the quiet waters, the restored soul, my desire to set a better example for my teens chiming in.
How can one not be grateful for these two incredible young women? For the ways the sky changes hues even in the middle of the day as clouds drift across the sun’s rays? For the colors of the wildflowers in snatches and patches along the main roads? How can I not be grateful for the grace from my girls, from my Creator, the Gardener who tends my heart, mind, and soul, and, yes, the grace from myself I have learned along the way? That is what provides me a new beginning even in the late afternoon to try again. And that is the example I hope my girls will see in me.