Time for Beauty

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A close-up photo of a basket containing pruning shears, a lot of broccoli, about ten hand-sized cucumbers, and a small head of orange cauliflower. Beside the basket, the brown leather toes of Emily's garden shoes can be seen.

Under the scribbled tentative title of the book I'm writing, on the little magnetic chicken notepad on my fridge, which probably should be used for grocery reminders, but instead is used for... random stuff, there's a quote I just can't let go of:  

"In such ugly times, the only true protest is beauty." ~Phil Ochs

Four newly-hatched pale yellow fluffy chicks forage in the dappled sunlight, which is streaming down through tall green weeds and yellow calendula flowers. Spikes of plantain seeds are in the foreground.

It's been a long time since I could see beauty. It disappeared last year, while my Mum was undergoing treatment for, and slowly dying of, a brain tumour. Now I look at the whole world she gave me--the flowers and garden; this home that I grew up in, which I raised my kids in and still rent from my father; the rain and snow and sunshine, and the deep, deep love of it all--and it looks grey. An artist friend told me that's just what depression looks like. She said it took four years for her to see colours again after her partner died. I wish I could say I'm angry about that. But I'm not, even. I feel grey about that.

Close-up photo of a head of green cauliflower, still nestled in its leaves.

Despite this, my garden grows on. The hens have their babies, and now the whole yard is full of veggies offering themselves to the insects and the molluscs, to the chickens and to me. Full of my father walking around making nurturing adjustments to his yard and his days and his heart. Full of my partner gently going about the jobs of living, even while I've been so empty of life. Full of life, whether I see it, or not. My beautiful Mama wanted me to see it. She knew depression all her life, and she wanted me not to have that. After she died, I dreamed that she was showing me the prismatic beauty of the world. But when I woke up, it was still grey.

Inside a long arched trellis full of beans and white-blooming radishes on the left, and cucumber vines and hung bunches of curing garlic on the right, a blond-and-grey bearded man stands reaching up, taking down bunches of garlic to put into a cardboard box that's at his feet. He is pulling in the garlic before it rains.

So I'm trying to document the beauty, again. Maybe so one day I can look back and see that it really was there, after all; maybe just so I documented what my heart can't see. Or maybe to protest the ugliness of loss. 

Fifteen chickens of various breeds and colours stand all over an unmowed lawn of clovers, weeds, and grasses, foraging in the partial shade of surrounding magnolias.

Anyway, my hands know how to do the motions of documenting, even if my heart can't see. So here's my garden. I hope you can see it. I hope it encourages you to grow flowers, food, life, and love everywhere because even when you can't see them for the pain, these things living despite it all is what carries us through.

A white-barked copper beach trunk on the right of the photo, and the sun streaming down on the left, illuminating grass flowers in the foreground.

💚 

A huge clump of bright orange marigolds blossoms among carrot greens behind two wooden stakes with black hand-printed lettering that reads Alkindus Lettuce, and Carrots.


 

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