What’s in my grief garden?

            My grief garden is plowed in the hills of West Virginia where the windy roads mirror the snake like shape of a rushing creek. I discovered through writing my garden isn’t only one plot, but a multitude of plots with years of grief planted, buried several feet into the ground and fertilized with good ole’ fashion coping mechanisms, some positive and some more on the negative side.

            The more I write every day, the more I’m vigilant about allowing the sun to shine on the seeds that were buried long ago, I’ve begun to see the harvest. In a strange kind of way my mom dying in September was the most powerful fertilizer I could have ever imagined. Her passing allowed all the seeds to break through the ground and began to allow me to pick from the garden.

            As I’m walking in my garden if I’m not careful, I take my shoe and push back a pile of dirt.  over the plant. I never cover the roses that still bloom, even as the summer gives way to the fall. They remind me of when my mother asked me to plant them. We had to try twice because the first knock rose bushes died. The second time around these bushes survived a wicked spring frost. As I see the petals gently blowing in the wind, I’m reminded of how much my mother loved those roses. I can see her smiling, as we sat at the patio, and she raved about their beauty.

            Suddenly, I need to move past the roses because while at first, they brought me great joy, my happy memories lead me down the path of coming to terms with her being gone. As much as I know it’s okay to cry, I just seem to want to limit how much watering I give daily.

            As I walk through my garden, I pick up a green pepper. I bring it in, cut it and take all the annoying seeds out. It makes me happy to have another vegetable, but then I taste it and it’s bitter. I try again, same result. Sometimes things look so beautiful on the outside, but then, well then, the harsh reality sets in. Not everything leads me down the pathway of sweetness, most things end up in the same place. Sweet and yet bitter. Will I ever get to only sweet or will there always be the looming taste of bitterness awaiting me?

            I dig in my garden. In the same way I helped my father dig up potatoes planted in the annual potato patch. They lie less than a foot below the surface. It’s not hard to dig them up…just like it’s not hard to dig up my stories of grief. For a moment I stare off into the distance looking at that potato patch. It was always a happy place for me. It still is. It’s not the garden or what’s planted I’m afraid of, it’s what happens when I pull them out with clumpy, clay dirt and must my get hands dirty.

            I think I just like to keep my hands nice and neat. But the garden requires my hands to be dirty. And that’s what I’m learning about grief. If I want to really explore all that grief has to teach me, I’ve got to roll up my sleeves and not be afraid to go shoulder deep into however far down I need to dig.

             I believe anyone who crosses paths with me in this life will benefit from my grief garden. As I learn I can teach and as I heal, I can help heal. I’ll share the beauty and maybe even share a little of my dirt if needed.