“Sometimes he used a spade in the garden; sometimes he read and wrote. He had but one name for these two kinds of labor; he called them gardening.” -Victor Hugo (concerning the Vicar), Les Miserables
In the morning, when I sit in my window seat with a mug of coffee and watch the titmice and chickadees at the bird feeder, I think about many things. I wonder, I pray, I worship. Sometimes, even, I sing.
I still keep a bound journal, in long-hand, mostly to record the annual garden chores, and this is where I sit to write, in my kitchen window. In writing, I discover things about myself, God, life. Writing, for me, is like a trowel, bringing to the surface thoughts that go deeper than the work at hand, down into the warm earth from where life springs.
The garden, on the other hand, is Life itself. Teeming, blooming, fruiting, dying. I like getting my hands dirty.
“The Spirit is a garden,” said <the Vicar>.
I invite you to walk in my garden with me.
Love, Carie
Carie, I have visited your site a few times now and though I do not know you, I feel connected to you and inspired by you. Thank you for allowing me to a small bug on the wall in your journey of life. Blessings to you.
Jodi Orgill Brown
http://www.lifeconstructionzone.com
Jodi, thank you for stopping by. and for letting me know, so I can enjoy that too. I love the thought that it is possible to connect with words…. connection is what we all need most I believe.