On Pentecost I harvested the last of the kale and lettuce in my little garden. The leafy greens loved the little cool snap we’d been having, but the heat of the day was threatening wilt. So I picked it all, one leaf at a time, and pulled up the roots and stems to feed to the goats.
Cleaning greens is a lengthy process. I don’t use any insecticides, so I examine each leaf, rinsing and inspecting closely for insects or other bits of nature. I spent most of the afternoon rinsing kale and lettuce greens, spinning them dry, and dreaming of recipes for them.
I am not a detail person. Tedious work makes me tired, and maybe a little irritable, but for some reason these garden tasks do a good work on my spirit—slow me down and relax me. Sometimes, as I dab a leaf dry with a paper towel I discover a little friend, part of the garden world accidentally brought inside. On Pentecost, it was a little garden orb, hiding under a kale leaflet. I carried her outside on her green chariot and instead of being creeped out that she could have been part of my salad, I let myself be filled with wonder at how all the small things work together in this world. The yellow of her abdomen was so beautiful and I whispered to her how grateful I was that she kept my garden well.
On that first Pentecost, the Holy Spirit came as wind and fire. And all these years later I feel the after ripple, the warm glow of his breath breathing new life into my spirit through the garden.
I'm joining Kelli for Unforced Rhythms this week.