It never fails.
The joy that overtakes someone the moment I hand them a bouquet.
“Oh my gosh, thank you! These are amazing. Oh my gosh, they smell so good!” “Wait, these are from your garden? You grew these?!”
Almost always the same, no matter who I hand them to.
If we are meeting between April and October, chances are I am bringing you flowers. That morning, after my quiet walk, I find each one, build an imperfectly perfect bouquet, and tuck it in my cup holder, a small gift of the aroma of joy waiting for you.
To me, though, it is so much more than a bouquet.
It is hard work and itchy bug bites and dripping sweat. It is also pure joy, deep trust, disciplined maintenance, and the practice of letting go.
Chad and I clear the ground, plant the seed, water it, and wait. Then I have to fight the urge to pull what looks exactly like a weed, waiting for the bloom to tell me it’s a flower to keep. Once spent, pruning so something new can grow. Then continually pulling the not good weeds so they don’t take up much-needed space and steal what the flowers need. Then collecting seed to spread to another garden, gift to a friend, and always leaving some for the birds.
And then the cycle begins again.
It is one of the most honest pictures I know of what this courage work actually requires.
Discipline to tend it. Trust to wait for it. Willingness to let go so something new can bloom.
The garden doesn’t lie. Neither does the work.