It has been almost a year since I last wrote. A very tough year. A year where I have felt so dry of words my heart couldn't string a line of them together that felt in the least bit interesting, let alone uplifting. Less than one year after my father died, my mother fought and lost her battle with cancer.
Mom moved near me in Washington when my kids were in grade school and junior high. We shared a deep love of nature and gardening and our homes reflected it. Having spent several years in Japan before her husband retired from the Navy, she was influenced by their art and design. Together we formed her little back yard overlooking a wooded area of a golf course, into a small Japanese inspired garden. Her modest garden was deeply filtered by huge Douglas fir trees and we gave up the lawn to accept and then encourage the moss that preferred to grow there and created a pathway of pavers through the soft green earth. The camellia bush we planted when only a foot tall, bloomed brightly each year, and this dark green bush soon towered over seven feet, it's glossy dark leaves reflecting small glints of light. The nandina, ferns, hostas, hellebores, and Japanese skimmia, added diverse shades of green to her light dappled retreat.
White and pink blossoms from astilbe adding the gentle break of cadence from the garden's green chorus. Mom disliked variegated leaves, so nandina leaves were only tolerated because they maintained muted gradations of wine and green, and not the dreaded striped and speckled leaves she thought garish and harsh in other plant varieties that enjoyed or tolerated the shade. One year I gave her a coral barked maple, hoping its bright bark would be a light source in the winter's long wet and often gloomy days. She loved it, and although it never grew very large, it was one of her most prized specimen's, and she often commented wistfully, "I can't believe I have a coral barked maple". As all gardeners do, she understood why my gifts of bags of manure and compost felt as good as receiving diamonds and riches.
Through the years we giggled at the way we each groaned when our arthritic knees were forced to bend and straighten. We both limped with both legs, and we poked fun at ourselves as we waddled back and forth, side by side. She short, me tall, making shadows like waving grass.
After mom left us, I decided to finally do something about my own knees. They each had advanced arthritis and were grinding bone to bone, making my life so much smaller with their limitations. So, six months ago at the age of 55, I underwent bi-lateral knee replacements. More than one person have commented, "I can't decide whether you were incredibly brave, or incredibly stupid to have them both done at the same time."
I don't know what I'll think a few years down the road, but right now, I'm under the feeling I was very stupid. Having both knees replaced at one time is more pain than I think we humans should ever have to endure. I'm also a scar former, inside and out, and the affects of surgery on my body felt like more than I could bare much of the time. I hurt, I miss my mom and dad, and I was scared (still am) what my future mobility would be like.
God is faithful. George Bernard Shaw wrote, "The best place to seek God is your garden, you can dig for Him there," and although the old atheist may not have meant his words to resonate with those who see God's fingerprint in nature, they have called my twitching shovel foot into action. I am digging again. My stiff newly-minted knees have been bending down to weed, and my right foot has been pushing down my dented iron shovel deep into the earth, moving plants, and removing the snares that seek to overtake new life. God is responding as He promised in Jeremiah 29:13, "You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart. I will be found by you." I will continue to dig.
