“If you have a bad day, don’t plant it. Bad days have a habit of turning into bad weeks, months and years.” Dave Roberts
I am kneeling grass stained on the ground. Hunched over, I am digging. I am shoveling. I am preparing the seed to plant down deep. My worry, my distraction. They are acts of cultivation. Of sowing. I will reap bitterness. I will reap burnout. I will reap bitter roots, a fruit that sickens the stomach.
Why do I exert myself with this bitter planting, when your gifts spring up like wildflowers? The glittering orange of African daisies and California poppies. The purple pallor of morning glories and forget-me-nots.
I was given a vision a few months back by a friend. A part two of sorts to my life as a basking case. In this vision I am still in the field. Still in the meadow of flowers. But I am not laying still with baited breath. I am not lounging lazily as God bursts forth more buds of morning glory. I am active; I am weaving to be precise. Weaving flowers. Weaving flowers bursting wild with hope.
“Your weaving is your worship,” my friend said.
Tying together the gifts into a wreath of remembrance. Forget-ME-nots.
So why do I find myself today elbows deep in dirt, preparing soil to nourish roots of anger and disillusionment? Why do I plant at all when the harvest is upon me?
I lift my gaze to see the sun is out shining, ready for the basking. My eyes scan the landscape teeming with untamed flowers, ready for the weaving. Ready for the worship.
A smile sneaks across my teeth up into the crinkles of my eyes, and as my fingers reach for petaled stem, the words escape my lips, “I will forget You not.”