Dear Friends,
I like to have control over my home environment. I really do believe that there’s a place for everything and that everything should be in its place – at least by the end of the day. I enjoy simple work – scrubbing the floor on my knees, ironing and folding laundry, hand-washing dishes, and lining up my spices in alphabetical order in the microwave, which has been inoperable for more than a dozen years. While the affairs of our country and of the wider world render me powerless, I clean and curate my home to be an island of sanity for me, my family, and guests.
The grounds around the house are of a different category, however. The front lawn is more hay than grass because, much to the frustration of my gardener, I refuse to water it. I will not waste this precious resource for the sake of social convention. I feel that if God intended my lawn to be green, God would make it rain more frequently. Fortunately, the full view of the hay patch is somewhat obscured to passers-by, hidden by a wooden picket fence in need of both paint and repair. The back yard, whose east side is shielded from full sun, has some clumps of grass growing between the weeds. But who needs grass when you have the most beautiful Dogwood tree on Long Island. In full bloom, as it is at present, it is a gratuitous gift from the afore-mentioned Holy Blessed One. Covering a quarter of the yard with its broad canopy, I have done nothing to keep it thriving. Yesterday I came home from the funeral of a treasured RSNS member – my third funeral in ten days – and I surrendered to the tree’s splendor by sprawling on my back, still in my suit, staring up into its branches on of which held a nest. 1500 years ago, the Rabbis composed a blessing just for such an occasion: “Blessed art You, ADONAI our God, King of the Universe, who has withheld nothing from Your world, and has created beautiful and goodly trees for our enjoyment.”
Across from the tree to the left of the garden path are three raised beds for herbs. God has taken over some of the work here. Sage, scallions, and chives return every year. This year, too, the French thyme came back, though its cousin, the English thyme, perished in the snow. What’s most remarkable is the tarragon. I had tried to grow tarragon for years and failed, but two years ago it took, and I had tarragon enough for the summer and fall for the two recipes in my repertoire that call for the herb. Last year, the tarragon came back with a vengeance. I had bushels of it. And it’s back again for a third season.
The rosemary did not survive the winter, but then it rarely does, and I always have to plant basil and parsley. I have never been successful with dill, but then I can’t blame myself alone. God is my partner in the garden’s raised beds. I seed but God is in the soil and in the clouds, which determines if the seeds will germinate. I take full responsibility for the lawn hay, and no responsibility for the tree. I plant more with hope than with expectation. And I am full of wonder when anything grows. How does an herb sprout from a seed? What entitles me to have such glory in my backyard? This reward is undeserved. It has little, if anything, to do with me. The only possible response to this is simply Praise Be!
With gratitude for it all, I am warmly,
Lee
