Gardening After Dark

While Martin furiously graded, I danced with the girls and then put them to bed, Elspeth with her stuffed floppy dog and Merry with her dreams of Laura Ingalls. And then I ran downstairs and out the door.

Gardening after dark has its rewards. I don't worry about sunburn, for instance. And when I hit rock while digging up turf, I couldn't see well enough to discern whether the rock was movable or not, so I didn't bother trying too hard. In the dark I can imagine that the ugly pool is gone instead of slouching like an unwelcome, demanding visitor who smells terrible in the corner of our yard. (The lady who wanted it so badly removed part of it but never came back! O please, come back!)

And after my digging tonight, I sat on our porch and took in the quiet of the evening: stars brilliant, my neighbor (who gave me Tiger Lily tubers today) silhouetted behind his computer screen, the lights glowing from houses. I revelled in the feeling of being completely hidden.

I find that gardening demands more than you expected but then in turn gives more than you hoped. After sweating all day digging rocks, ankle deep in grass clippings, you receive a gift: the mellowing of eveningfall, colors beginning to glow; everything softens; the green of leaves and grass blades is so deep you feel as though you could stroke it like a cat. Leaning on your shovel, talking to a neighbor or better still, enjoying the quiet, the world fills you with a knowledge that does not make you feel like jumping up and down but nodding and saying, That's Right. After all, I knew it all the time.

This is my Father's world,
and to my listening ears
all nature sings, and round me rings
the music of the spheres.
This is my Father's world:
I rest me in the thought
of rocks and trees, of skies and seas;
his hand the wonders wrought.