Outside my window the March Hare has played a terrible trick, smothering the landscape with inches and inches of snow. My yard resembles a moonscape, drifts and crater and dunes. Not of sand or soil or dust.
A white coverlet. A snow blanket.
Two days ago, daffodils peeking.
Gone. Gone. Gone.
On the other side of the world.
A Zen Garden. Rocks and stones and grains of sand.
Here in my corner of the world.
My Garden. Snow and what once was, now hidden from sight.
A Zen Garden. A garden that begins with a single grain of sand. Then another and another, a gentle rain. The song of a sonnet raked in lines and waves. A rock, for punctuation, for emphasis, a stress, an accented syllable.
A call to attention.
The busy mind in the Zen Garden sees only the lines in the sand. The solitary rock. The busy mind in the Zen Garden tries to establish order, to fill in the empty spaces.
For the busy mind, the Zen Garden is a solemn sorry space.
The busy mind in my Garden sees only piles of snow. The solitary tree. For the busy mind, my Garden is a blank canvass. One more day to wait, one more day without color, shape or bloom.
For the busy mind, my Garden is a sad and solitary place.
The song of the Zen Garden is a poem. Everything is here, it sings. Everything you need is here. Right under your nose. In front of your face. Under your feet. The waves of the ocean, the mountain rising out of the sea, the hills and the swell of the tide. Nothing is missing. Except you. Loving patient hands sorted and placed each grain of sand, polished and placed each pebble and stone, raked the patterns of the wind and the wisps of the clouds.
The song of my Garden is an anthem. A gentle chorus humming softly. A familiar tune. There is life beneath the snow. Everything I need is here. Tucked in under the covers, waiting for the sun to rise. Nothing is hidden.The patient gardener listens. The faithful believe.
The buds will bloom, the grass will green, the sun will shine.
No matter where you are in the world, the light is shining.
The morning glory is waiting for you.
In the garden, where even a single grain of sand is a work of art.