Resurrections

“God is what he is;
Yahweh is who he is.”
Alec Motyer

The first thing the Cross does is cross out the world’s word by a Wholly-Other Word,
a Word that the world does not want to hear at any price.
For the world wants to live and rise again before it dies,
while the love of Christ wants to die in order to rise again in the form of God on the
other side of death, indeed, IN death.”
― Hans Urs von Balthasar

(a surprise resurrection blooming peony / Julie Cook /2017)

Late last Spring, early summer, I found myself wandering through the garden center of Lowes.
Whenever I’m feeling ‘less then’, blah or downright sad I often find myself wandering
the garden center.
Rows and rows of color, vibrancy and simply life…
abundant in the scents and sights of fullness, always seems to lift my spirits.

I either wander aimlessly, seeking some hidden sense of solace…
or I wander with a purpose…as in I come with the intent of purchasing something
to plant…
as in, there is a reason and a need for the wandering.

Last planting season I was seeking a few shrubs that were deer resistant but plants
that had more umph than some sort of boxwood or holly.
Something that could survive the full relentless Georgia sun.
A summer either baking and dry or sticky and humid…
Last summer it was hot and dry with a long lasting and oh so deadly drought.

I am a fan of the old fashioned sort of plants found in gardens that harken
to another time…a lovely sort of English cottage garden…
Those gardens that call to mind the thoughts and memories of those who have gone before.

So imagine my piqued interest when I spied a potted peony.
Peonies remind me of old world stateliness…soft while elegant.
Not flashy, not cutting edge, not loud nor garish.
A very southern old-time staple.

I am not a green thumb queen like our friend Natalie over on Sacred Touches
(https://sacredtouches.com)
I do however enjoy planting and working in the yard,
as it is extremely therapeutic for me…
It’s just that I don’t always have success and I don’t always know what I’m doing.

After checking out the price tag on the peony, I had a bit of sticker shock.
It was very expensive.
I asked one of the garden center folks if the peony could survive full sun.
She told me yes and that that was the last peony for the season…that she had already bought
one of the others despite it being a big splurge…she was just excited to get one.

Seeing that I was in the midst of the growing difficult life with Dad’s declining health
and the beginnings of his increasing needs as the life I had known had ceased…
I wanted, no I needed, something to bring me a bit of joy…
I figured a blooming peony could do just that.
So I too splurged and bought the potted peony.

Long story short.
I planted it.
I cared for it.
But we had a deadly drought.
Baking heat and a drought…

This is what the peony looked like come early Fall…

Dejected and sad I text Natalie the pictures.
Knowing her to be the queen of flowers, I shared my loss with her.
Natalie does indeed know a thing or two about flowers and plants
as well as a thing or two about heat and drought as she hails from Texas…
She told me not to dig up the plant…
“Just leave it, because come Spring, you might just be surprised.”
“Peonies are of a hardy stock.”
I suppose a Texas southerner knows a thing or two about hardy stock.

So as the winter came and my life grew more grey and difficult, I forgot all about the peony.

Fast forward to now…as I wander about in the wake of losing Dad,
going through the motions these last couple of weeks while trying to pick up the pieces of
what all he’s left behind,
I’ve been working slowly to bring some semblance of order back into my world.

Wandering about the yard, seeking newness and fullness, I caught my breath when I noticed
a little tuft of fresh greenery emerging from the recently replaced pine straw.
Cautiously over the past week, I’ve watched the little tuft get fuller and taller.
Then Sunday afternoon I couldn’t believe my eyes, there was a bloom.

A real resurrection of sorts….

And how timely that this garden resurrection should manifest itself during this most
Holy of weeks…

The weightiness and heaviness of this world…with its pain and overwhelming sorrow…
It is both frightening while at the same time complacent as it lulls us into feeling
that it is our home, our only home.
Dirty and broken, hot and dry…it clutches us, smothering us as it holds our
face in it’s grip convincing us that this world is all we could ever want or need.

Yet in that brokeness and loneliness of our empty hearts and souls…we yearn
for more.
While we shrink in the dryness…
we are spent…

So on that hot dry day of loss…
as a head drops to the chest and the last breath is released…
while the sky darkens and all hope leaves with that drying…

A promise is not forgotten…
and soon our world will change forever…
for the better…..

He said to them, “This is what I told you while I was still with you:
Everything must be fulfilled that is written about me in the Law of Moses,
the Prophets and the Psalms.”
Luke 24:44

The gift of a peach

“The nectarine, and curious peach,
Into my hands themselves do reach;
Stumbling on melons, as I pass,
Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.”
Andrew Marvell

Dwell not upon thy weariness,
thy strength shall be according to the measure of thy desire.
Arab Proverb

(my very own little peaches / Julie Cook / 2015)

I watched you today.
I knew you didn’t feel well.
You were quiet.
Not yourself.

I saw the worry on your face and heard it in your voice.
I could feel your preoccupation with the heaviness and grief.
I watched you take the last couple of pills out of the bottle
to help soothe your stomach.

Yet I knew you were still keenly aware of your surroundings.

I heard you mention how deep blue the sky was today as it was
accented by the new green growth of all the towering trees.

I watched as you ambled up and down the aisles of the garden shop,
snapping pictures of the blankets of new blooms exploding on every young plant.

I saw you plant the new little lime tree,
watching as you hoisted sack after sack of dirt in order to fill the pot.
I noticed how you forgot to put on the gloves,
growing agitated that the dirt got under your nails.

I watched your excitement when you noticed the tiny peaches sprouting out on the equally
tiny peach tree.

I’ve watched you labor with the tiny tree, ever since you brought it home two years ago.
It was a sad stick of a tree sitting in that hardware store.
You’d asked your husband if you could buy two of them hoping to eventually have your
own peach trees.

I felt your frustration when you unwrapped them and one of them was already dead.
I marveled as you planted the sole remaining little tree anyway,
offering it your care and your hope.

I watched as you watered it.
Fertilized it.
Moved it in and out as each season dictated.
You’ve defended it from the spider mites.

I’ve watched you over the years relish in the peaches you’d bring home from market.
Gently feeling each one for ripeness.
Placing your nose to each peach, breathing in deeply for that distinct scent.
I’ve watched you as a little girl bite into a ripened peach,
as the juice dribbled down your chin and the fuzzy skin tickled your tongue.

I had hoped you’d see the buds.
I wanted them to fill you with anticipation and excitement.
I’ve known things haven’t been easy and that you’ve felt lonely and overwhelmed.

I wanted you to know, through the tiny bud of a peach, that I am here. . .
That I do see you,
hear you,
feel you,
Love you. . .

“I will be a Father to you,
and you will be my sons and daughters,
says the Lord Almighty.”
2 Corinthians 6:18

“For He looks to the ends of the earth
And sees everything under the heavens.
Job 28:24

Make hay while the sun shines

Sweat cleanses from the inside.
It comes from places a shower will never reach.
George Sheehan

“He who works with his hands is a laborer.
He who works with his hands and his head is a craftsman.
He who works with his hands and his head and his heart is an artist.”
― Francis of Assisi

(my grandmother’s old pitchfork / Julie Cook / 2015)

Maybe it was the brilliant bright sun.
The endless deep blue sky.
The tender vibrant new green leaves.
The deafening serenade of the cacophony of birds. . .

Outside was calling. . .
And I had no choice but to heed the call. . .
As I just couldn’t drive, one more day, over to Dad’s.

Yet this was not a day for leisure.
No idyllic lounging under a welcoming shade tree
No whiling away the hours. . .
Sitting idly by, just taking in the day. . .
Nope, there’d none of that. . .
As there was work to be done.

Balancing a hectic life,
Taking care of two households in two different cities. . .
Dreading the three letter name that constantly pops up on my phone,
“DAD”
As in Dad = a crisis. . .
Small or large, a crisis will be brewing

Running here, there and yon
Darting in and out
Dashing from here to there and back again,
4 times a week if not more
Rushing to and from frantic traffic. . .
To and from the unhappy confused
The frustrated caregivers. . .
Loons who loom. . .

Which all leads to a weary, frazzled, beaten mind, body and soul

The best curative you ask,
Other than running away, or something illegal or illicit?
Well for me, it’s always been to head outside. . .
To work in the yard.
Even when I was teaching and raising a family. . .
Having a day, maybe even two, to be outside. . .
Working with my hands. . .

As in really work.
Hard work.
Manual labor sort of work.
The blisters on the hands sort of work.
The nitty, gritty, down and dirty, sweaty sort of work..

Cut all the shrubbery
Weed the weeds
Spread out new pine straw
Cut limbs
Rake out beds
Dig up the overgrown
Haul rocks
You name it. . .

From sunup to sundown
As in doing it while there is time in the day
Making the most of the light of day, the time we have. . .
For it is good for the soul
Cleansing of the mind
Stretching muscles and joints to the breaking point
Strenuous work, which in the end, results in a visible difference.
A visible and tangible accomplishment

Toiling
Working
Laboring
On something with a beginning, perhaps a long forgotten beginning. . .
Maybe a monumental beginning which may appear almost impossible. . .
Something that could possibly take a while, as in ongoing. . .
Or maybe its something as simple as rearranging, replanting, repainting, replacing. . .
Something, that at the end, is going to be different, better, organized, improved. . .
All because I, me, we, you put our hands into it, our mind into it,
our backs into it, our hearts and soul into it. . .

Whereas I, we, me, you can’t always “fix” or solve the issues that come into our lives,
or into the lives of those we love, or even into the lives of those we don’t even know. . .
Those issues that challenge us, engage us, enrage us, frustrate us, try us. . .
And whereas we can’t always make things better for others or ourselves. . .
Because the issues are bigger than ourselves, our abilities, our control. . .
Being able to see, to feel, to experience something that we can change, or fix,
or make better, or make a difference with, or something we can finally meet head on, something that has been waiting for us, possibly for years. . .
It is to such laboring tasks that we can find healing and the need of being cleansed. . .
The clearing of a heavy heart, a cluttered mind, a confused world. . .

It is the satisfaction of knowing that [finally] we tackled it, brought a resolution, made a difference, made a change, made some small corner of our world. . .better.
Be it something seemingly insignificant, tiny and small. . .something not necessarily
Noticed by others, no one other than ourselves. . .
Nonetheless the change being there, is for the positive. . .

It is this sort of honest, simple, often repetitive, work. . .
which can make all the difference in the world in ones
perspective, well-being, thoughts, heart. . .
Providing the incentive to, in turn, meet the ever looming challenges or our lives with more focus,
a better determination, and with the hope we may have initially lost. . .
For in such we find ourselves feeling better about ourselves and in our lot in life in general. . .

So may we never shy from any work that calls for our hands, our backs, our minds and our hearts. . .
May we never look down upon those who make their livelihoods doing the sort of work with their hands and backs that many of us so often take for granted- – –
May we come to understand that the working of hands and backs, the manual labor sort of work, is more often than not some of the most honest, refreshing, rejuvenating, perspective changing, cathartic, satisfying and even edifying work that any of us, who may often lose our way in our journeys,
in this ever instant gratification,
touch of a button, sort of world we find ourselves living. . .
Here’s to the work of our hands. . .

All hard work brings a profit, but mere talk leads only to poverty.
Proverbs 14:23

For the love of a tree

“For me, trees have always been the most penetrating preachers. I revere them when they live in tribes and families, in forests and groves. And even more I revere them when they stand alone. They are like lonely persons. Not like hermits who have stolen away out of some weakness, but like great, solitary men, like Beethoven and Nietzsche. In their highest boughs the world rustles, their roots rest in infinity; but they do not lose themselves there, they struggle with all the force of their lives for one thing only: to fulfil themselves according to their own laws, to build up their own form, to represent themselves. Nothing is holier, nothing is more exemplary than a beautiful, strong tree. . .
Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach, undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life.
A tree says: A kernel is hidden in me, a spark, a thought, I am life from eternal life. The attempt and the risk that the eternal mother took with me is unique, unique the form and veins of my skin, unique the smallest play of leaves in my branches and the smallest scar on my bark. I was made to form and reveal the eternal in my smallest special detail.
A tree says: My strength is trust. I know nothing about my fathers, I know nothing about the thousand children that every year spring out of me. I live out the secret of my seed to the very end, and I care for nothing else. I trust that God is in me. I trust that my labor is holy. Out of this trust I live. . .”
Hermann Hesse, Bäume. Betrachtungen und Gedichte

(the anticipation of hopefulness, a pecan bud / Julie Cook / 2015)

First I wish to clarify this post with a tiny disclaimer—I am not a huge fan of nuts.
I’m not talking about the crazy people nut variety but rather the product of a tree nut variety.
I don’t really care for eating nuts. I only like nuts in limited quantities and then only salted. Maybe a nice Sole Almondine with an unctuous berure blanc sauce, perhaps a tasty handful of sugared and spiced holiday pecans, or a few hearty walnuts scattered with a bit of blue cheese alongside a poached pear or two. . .but that’s about it. None of this pecan pie business, no nuts on my ice-cream sundays, no nut dotted fruit cakes, no handful of protein packed healthy snacks. . .
So the question today begging to be asked—why this latest endeavor of mine?. . .yet but before we can address latest endeavors, let’s turn our attention to trees shall we. . .

I suppose for a true southern girl such as myself, nothing speaks more of the South than either a majestic oak draped in the gossamer lace of spanish moss or that of a stately grove of pecan tress creating a sun dappled canopy, rich and cool, during the lazy humid summer afternoons indicative to this deep south of mime.

I have always wanted to have a home surrounded by and nestled amongst a grove of pecan trees. The pecan tree, unlike the towering protectively strong massive oak, is a bit more demure as it arches more delicately outward verses stately and upward. A pecan tree wants to envelope you, wrapping you in its charming branches—tenderly and gently holding you and comforting you with its wind whispered lullabies. It is no surprise therefore, that my husband is quite accustomed to my wistful sighs whenever we find ourselves driving in the southern part of the state as there is nothing but pecan orchard after orchard for as far as the eye can see.

(photo courtesy Sugarland Farms)

Driving throughout much of middle and southern Georgia, passerby’s are often struck by the serenity of the never-ending pecan orchards. The pecan is big business here in Georgia. It is reported that one-third of the nation’s pecans are produced in Georgia with an average of 88 million pounds produced annually. So I suppose it’s terribly unnatural that this very southern Georgia girl does not particularly care for munching on pecans nor any other nut for that matter. My disdain for eating nuts however has never diminished my love and appreciation for the tree.

When we first built our house nearly 16 years ago, we always said we’d plant some pecan trees. The house is perched in the middle of 5 acres. . .a perfect setting for a small pecan orchard. Yet I suppose at our age, my husband and I pretty much figured that we would never live long enough to see “an orchard” to fruition. That being said however, my husband often fondly reflects. . . “I spent my life enjoying picking up and eating the pecans from trees that were planted long before I was living, it’s only fitting that someone one day should enjoy the pecans from a tree I planted”

So with that mindset at the forefront of our thoughts, we got busy this past week with this pay it forward endeavor of our very own orchard.

Not knowing the first thing about this planting business of nut tress much less any sort of big tree, we ventured forth, quite wet behind the ears, but with the resolute spirit of anticipation and hope.
Last Tuesday we drove almost 2 hours northward to Cartersville, Georgia to a tree nursery in order to procure our trees.
The nice nursery folks told us we’d need two types of pecan trees in order to provide cross pollination, otherwise trees of only one variety may never produce nuts containing any nutmeat.
We opted on the Pawnee and Sumner pecans.

We bought 15 6 foot trees, bare root, and grafted–hauling them back home in the back of the truck.
They were bundled up in plastic with an added gel goo to help keep the roots from drying out, that were then wrapped up in a burlap sheet. One look at the motley muddy bundles, my husband assumed the worst, that we’d just spent a small fortune on two big bundles of dead sticks. Yet the nursery assured us that the trees were indeed alive and well and would need to get in the ground as soon as possible.

Once home we gingerly placed the tree bundles on the back porch until we had a full day to dedicate to their planting. The greatest issue at hand was going to be digging the holes, which was to prove to be no easy task.

We already had a manually operated arguer, yet at 8 inches wide, we quickly realized we’d never get the 2 foot wide by 2.5 foot deep hole the trees would require.
We had to find an arguer that would fit on our tractor.
Already investing a small fortune first in the trees, we added to that investment with the purchase of a much larger arguer from our local Tractor Supply Company—the only problem was we had to figure out how to assemble this monstrosity of farm equipment, mounting it to the tractor ourselves.

Once the auger was rigged up to the tractor, we had to run enough water hoses to be able to reach the planting sight as the trees would require a massive amount of water just to get them in the ground. I screwed together three 100ft hoses and pulled them out to where we would be digging the holes. Pecan trees need their space—anywhere from 30 to 60 feet apart. We planted ours 30ft apart lengthwise and 60ft widthwise giving us 4 wide rows.

My husband began drilling out the holes.

Now I know you tree experts out there are screaming that our holes needed to be wider, but we did the best we could and are praying for the best! There is only so much these two older tired bodies can do!
The trees need enough depth as not to bend the tap root—the main base root of the tree–of which the nursery folks appear to have trimmed.

The nursery folks gave us a helpful printout from the University of Georgia’s Agriculture Dept regarding the planting of pecan trees. The instructions explained that the hole was to be filled half full with water, once the tree was centered in place, then back fill the hole with the extracted dirt as this would help to eliminate any air pockets. So we were basically burying a hole full of water with a stick poking out. . .hummmmm

The manual instructs that one “should not tramp down the soil as the roots need oxygen.” How in the heck does a drowned root find oxygen in non tramped down water logged soil?!

It took us about 8 hours to get all 15 trees in the ground. This is when we figured out that we had marked off space for 18 trees and planted only 15–which means, another trip to procure 3 more trees.

The trees need lots of water in order to get established. So I’ll be schlepping out the 300 feet of hose weekly, if not more often, once it warms up in order to keep everyone nice and moist. The next thing I have to do is to paint the base of each tree with white latex paint. This is to ward off any insect infestations and to deter deer from nibbling on the tender little trees.

Now that the planting is finished, all that remains is to water, hope and pray that 15 trees can forgive two novice planters, as I sweetly envision, many years from now, the wistful thoughts of those who will pass by my own little pecan grove.

Next on tap will be a few apple trees. And I must say, the nursery had some beautiful olive trees—I have a feeling my next nursery run will find me bringing home more than 3 more pecan trees.
And as for my earlier disclaimer, I will not be going into the nut business necessarily, but more aptly, I hope to be going into the tree business, as there is just nothing quite as lovely as a tree. . .
Here is to the hope of growth. . .

Succulent yet tenacious

“Nourish your eye and spirit with inspiring things. They will bloom with your tending.”
S.A.R.K

(a beautiful tray of succulent plants from the local home improvement store / Julie Cook / 2014)

The word succulent conjures up images of plump juicy, as well as sweet, leaves from such plants as the aloe and the agave, as well for most other sorts of cacti. The obvious object of the thick plump leaves is for the storage of water, as these plants are accustomed to living in very arid, hot, desert like environments. This built-in self watering system makes them rather indestructible as house plants for these plants are most forgiving when a regular watering is inadvertently forgotten.

They are not tall showy plants, boasting vibrant blooms, but are rather short and stocky bloomless alien looking vegetation. They often sport such comical names as hens and chicks and lamb’s tails. Appearing in a wide range of colorful tuberous leaves, many varieties often form beautiful patterns with their concentric circles of leaves.

Succulents may appear to be the more lazy of the plant world as they just simply seem to sit around not doing much. Not all of them bloom or produce flowers. They don’t grow very large in stature and they require very little maintenance, often appearing dormant or even dead.

Yet they are a tenacious lot.

They are not faint of heart as they stand up to extreme heat and drought. They can handle being ignored and often forgotten. They are the type of plant that can certainly take a licking as they simply keep on ticking—they have been around for thousands of years. It is said that a single particular little succulent plant, living at the Schönbrunn Palace in Vienna, Austria, dates back to 1780.

There is much to be learned from a succulent, or cactus:
They are self preserving (they gather everything they need, storing it for later)
They are self defending (the prickly varieties)
They can be self healing (as well as healing to others, as in aloe)
They can self nourish (they draw from their stored resources, think of sweet agave sugar)
They hold up under pressure (how well do you do in 120 degrees with a 4 percent rainfall total?)
They hold up under extreme heat (again, back to that 120 thing)
They hold up during the dry spells of life.

So it is, on this new day to this new week of this new season of life, that perhaps we should be mindful of the lowly cacti and succulent. Most often over looked at the garden center.
This hardy bunch of little stumpy leaved plants usually sit off to the side, pushed away making room for the rows and rows of garish flowering plants and shrubs–all as we make a mad rush wanting to purchase the more showy colorful plants as we ready our yards and gardens.

In the long run, which plant out lasts the others?

Those pretty boastful show plants most often need constant pampering and babying. Just the right amount of fertilizer, just the right amount of water–too much or too little and death is quickly at hand. We fret who will water the plants during our time away. Many of these plants are annuals, simply good for a single season which can equate to a costly endeavor.

On the other hand, there is the lowly succulent and the cactus. . .they are hardy, forgiving, tenacious, self sufficient, colorful–yet juicy, sweet, plump and long lasting. A rather good combination for endurance and some rather good attributes to attach to living a productive and prosperous life. We can learn much from these humble plants.

Here is to the succulents and cactus, those lowly and most overlooked of plants, yet some of the most hardy plants to have at home in the garden.
Happy Spring and happy planting. . .

Don’t judge each day by the harvest you reap but by the seeds that you plant.”
― Robert Louis Stevenson