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I look down and see the idle, worn-out garden hose next to
my feet. I stare at it for something like an eternity, the tornado of questions
swirling inside my mind and my heart:
Why bother? Why bother at all
if you can’t tell the difference between the real ficus and the fake…? If
miracles can be choreographed, manufactured, packaged and distributed like cans
of chicken noodle soup out of some miracle-cranking factory ‘out there’…
without hearing the Gardener’s voice...without a hose and a shovel… and a
manure pile? Without the death and the burial of the tiny seeds… ?
The deafening
silence of the sky above and the earth below is filled with the litany of my complaints.
I pause suddenly realizing
something I haven’t considered before.
What if…in their
silence…they might be saying…something… but I am unable to hear it from
all the noise I am making?
The thought
startles me stiff.
I look at the sky
again…
Blue. Big. Deep. Speckled with puffy
white clouds shaped like a clown riding a pony and a decapitated rabbit chasing
it.
I look around my
yard.
The azalea bushes. The maple trees. The cilantro and basil. Tomatoes and squash. The green tufts of grass under my feet. The sparkly drops of water trickling
out of the garden hose next to my feet.
Taking it all in, I
gasp for I realize that what the wordless blue sky and the quiet earth below have accomplished...
have birthed, and
nurtured, and
grown..
...in their silence...
... is more,
much more than I ever have with all my chatter.
The revolutionary thought feels like a strange mix of a ruthless kick in my gut and a tender hug around my shoulder.
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