Last winter, heading into the early days of spring, I went out in my neighborhood each day with my notebook, trying to stave off our least favorite annual houseguest in Seattle, seasonal depression. I was determined to find some color, some living thing trying to reach the surface of the soil or burst into bloom. I needed to be reminded that the gray gloom would not last forever, that there was vibrancy being nurtured in some hidden place, that the process of bringing it forth was already underway, despite all evidence to the contrary.
Beyond looking for hope in the dirt, I wanted these walks and the record I kept of them to be in service of something else: a quiet bow to the sacred specificity of the natural world. I wanted to notice things in their intricate detail. I wanted to honor these brave winter companions, sticking it out in the cold and the wind. I wanted to know their names.
I didn’t grow up with any particular kind of horticultural knowledge. Sure, I could identify a few plants: roses, our ubiquitous southern crape myrtles and the azaleas that ringed our backyard pecan tree. But my inner encyclopedia was limited. I would skim past mentions of begonias and plane trees in books, sketching their images with an impatient pencil in my mind — I was anxious to get to the next page. I had no idea then, nor can I conceive of now, how overwhelmingly vast and diverse the created world is. Even in these days when I’m trying much harder, I still haven’t seen a sliver of it.
I’m not the first, nor will I be the last, to find comfort in a God of such wild creativity, to find nurturing for my own creativity therein. Nor am I the first or last to say words so simple that even their status as a cliché cannot diminish them: There is so much to see, if we will take the time to look. Our Seattle climate is merciful, and soon I filled the pages of my notebook with mentions of the pink camellias, the red berries of the nandina, the whole range of purples in the tiny heather blooms.
I’m not the first, nor will I be the last, to find comfort in a God of such wild creativity, to find nurturing for my own creativity therein.
As we moved into February, I noted the fragrance of the sweetbox, the first muted mauves of the hellebores and the unfolding fans of lime euphorbia. I celebrated the first of the crocuses, creamy white, striped pale purple and deep buttery yellow, and I was even lucky enough to occasionally find a bumblebee asleep in one of their blooms.
When I thought about taking up a contemplative practice for Lent this year, learning the names of things was an easy choice. It has been so fruitful for me to accept the invitation to slow down, to look and to find in every plant along my way a silent prayer to the Creator. In his “Canticle of the Sun,” St. Francis of Assisi called moon and stars, fire and water, sisters and brothers. I have remembered that kinship as I set out to learn the names of my horticultural siblings. I have felt drawn into a unity of creation that reminds me, especially during Lent, of all that is developing and growing within me, of all that has not yet come into bloom, but which in good time, with gentle tending, will come forth.
My walks and journal entries often lead me into an examen inspired by this gentle reminder of the cycles of nature. I ask myself: What colors in me are hidden beneath the tight cap of a bud? What branches within me are ready to stretch out toward the sun? What seeds need watering, what soil needs turning?
When I thought about taking up a contemplative practice for Lent this year, learning the names of things was an easy choice. It has been so fruitful for me to accept the invitation to slow down, to look and to find in every plant along my way a silent prayer to the Creator.
I think, in part, the reason why this has been such an enduring practice for me is that it is such a simple one — no need to buy any specialized equipment or devote long hours to mastering technique. No need to even tightly plan an outing in a specific location. Just walk a different way home from the bus stop. Take a detour through a park. Peer into the flower beds and planter boxes that adorn your neighborhood. Smart phones will readily identify plant types. The names of your fellow creations are at your fingertips.
In my second year of this practice, I can now greet many of the plants and flowers along my walks as old friends. They remind me that there is an inherent logic within all creation, an inner knowing that guides us all on our path of life and growth. It is a wisdom all its own, and it is just the comfort I am seeking this Lent, an assurance that we are known, and tenderly held, by a great mystery.