The Good Earth

Is the reward for good [anything] but good? Surat ar-Rahman, Verse 60

I went to the store this week and gassed up the truck. Neither took much. Our home is pretty well stocked (without doing any hoarding, thank you very much) and with the continuing Stay At Home orders in our community, I just haven’t gone anywhere or done anything.

If I go places, it is on foot and just around the neighborhood. While the early stages of our current crisis felt a bit like Solitary Confinement on a global scale, against which I kicked and bucked like a delirious demon-bull at the rodeo (more like a tired old geezer being told it is time for his Geritol, truth be told), I must admit that the slower pace has begun to feel as warm and comfortable as those old leather dress shoes that have finally softened and conformed to fit your feet just right.

There is something about perambulating at a natural pace that feels good. The backyard has come alive with the flowering azaleas, blue bells, forget-me-nots, and hyacinths. The daffodils and tulips are done for the season (they really don’t last long at all), but the roses are budding and will soon be drawing humming birds and honey bees to their life-giving sweets.

I have mentioned in the past that the land and I are not great friends. I prefer concrete and steel. You don’t need to mow cement; weeds don’t grow on steel. I never have to clean my shoes after walking on asphalt, but when I come in from working in the yard, I track in all sorts of yard debris – dead grass, dirt, slug slime – and then I have to clean up after myself so that the labor never ends. Woe is me!

However, since I don’t have the luxury of hopping into the truck and running hither, thither, and yon like the proverbial chicken sans skull, I do have the time to step outside and walk amongst the various plants like a new-born Adam. They have become my children and I find myself wondering: Who the heck are you? What’s your name?

A friend dropped by last summer and we showed her our yard, and she was delighted by the wonderful variety of flowers and bushes. She would oo and ah, and she identified each and every one by its “proper” Greek or Latin designation. “Oh, what a beautiful Azalea Rhododendron Ericaceae,” or “Hyacinthoides Campanula Rotundifolia!”

I confess I didn’t pay much attention. I find it easier to simply recall them as Azaleas or Blue Bells or Forget Me Nots (on those rare occasions I recall anything at all). Some people have a gift for gardening and are adept at attending to proper details – like how much sun or shade a plant needs, or how often to water, or how much water to apply (and at what time of day). Sadly, I am not one of them. But now that I have time, perhaps I can begin to at least learn some of the names of these, my children, eh?

Or maybe I should go about my “Adam” business and name these flowers and bushes myself. I mean, why should I have to suffer the slings and arrows of scientists who see the world through their little microscopes and give these living organisms names that come from dead languages?

What’s wrong with naming my children Red Bush By the Birch Tree, Bee Collector Watch-it, Blue Bells Out Front, or Is That a Weed or a Plant?

There is no small satisfaction that comes with identifying our outdoor sentinels in a manner that is every bit as orderly and meaningful as that done by scientists in their lairs. The names may not have the panache of scientific nomenclature, but what does one expect from a Viriditas Bipedal Vulgaris (common two-legged weed)?

If there is anything good to come from this pandemic we’re all struggling with, it may just be our reconnecting with the universe (and the One) who binds us all together.

There is joy in becoming more familiar with the world in which we live. Familiar – family-like – reminds us that we’re all related. Perhaps I shall name the “Forget Me Not” Blessing, for we don’t ever want to forget our blessings here in this, our valley.