Every year I’ve worked on it, planting many strong plants to return each spring. And they do.
The juniper and pine trees stand firm, deeply rooted.
The honeysuckle vines take ownership of their section of the tall, wood fence. Hummingbirds battle for turf there.
The massive rose bushes fill up the southwest corner creating a safe roost for dozens of fluttery sparrows.
The jays, doves, blackbirds and finches flock to the feeders, as do the gray squirrels.
Every year this happens. I count on it. It seems certain, familiar.
But it is constant change, unfamiliar from moment to moment.
The raspberry patch opens up in the same corner but also sends new shoots out a dozen feet away. These I pluck.
Last year my hanging planters on the tall wood fence were lush, colorful, vibrant. This year, they are pale and ratty. Mysterious.
The planters beneath my bedroom window, sitting in far too much shade, are bursting with vibrancy and color, flowers spilling all the way to the ground. Surprising.
The birds at the feeder feel like old friends but many of them are this year’s fledglings and we’ve only just met. Many I’ll never see again.
This place of constant change is home to me. I am utterly comfortable in its uncertainty.
What if I could feel the same way about all of life?
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