Puttering

I like to think of God, after a long day of creating, ambling across the fields, stopping to get a closer look at a particular bud on a plant, leaning in close to watch a bee digging its burrow in a bare patch of earth, or gazing upward to whistle at the aurora in the frigid night sky. (God’s whistle always makes them dance.) A God that strolls is a God that observes, notices and delights in the weird and wonderful details of creation. A God that speaks with fierce claps of thunder also whispers with the prairie grasses in the wind.

I like to putter (or potter) in the garden in the morning, greeting each plant that put out new flowers, checking out how big the monarch caterpillars have become, and filling up a watering can at the rain barrel to give the thirsty plants a morning drink.

On rare mornings, water joins the plants in making a masterpiece for my morning meander in the garden. When the conditions are just right, plants all over the garden are decorated with droplets of water – arranged just so by the hydraulics in the plant machine. Each leaf type reveals something of its internal structure, showing where the pores have exuded this water overnight – for this is not dew at all, but a phenomenon called guttation. On other days, after a rain or a particularly misty morning, water droplets cling or gather in different configurations (anyone who grows lady’s mantle has seen the elegant collection of water in the centre of each frilled leaf). To me, there is nothing more awe-inspiring! (You might say that I wonder as I wander.)

I marvel

Although a couple of weeds may be pulled on the morning garden putter, and some might call watering a chore, these morning visits to the garden are not “gardening” as most people would define it. These morning (and evening) rambles are the fulfillment of gardening. Nothing to harvest, nothing to transplant, nothing to prune; in these moments, halting, the bird-song steps out of the background noise and makes itself heard; the tulips or anemones open as the sunlight touches down; the spiderwebs tickle me as I cross their path; the scent of a flower drifts by on a breeze, and I marvel.

I like to think of God, wandering the garden that is the earth, inspecting the pattern of a snowflake, or feeling the cool grass while lying back on a hillside, seeing pictures in the clouds, and declaring it very good! The life-giving breath of God on an inhale, savouring the sacred incense of a sweet pea. God gives us rest and wonder and curiosity – so take a moment to forget about the harvest or the weeds or deadlines or the laundry piling up inside.

Take a moment to putter and observe and breathe.