I’m happy to share another long-ago essay from my archives, inspired by the buds that are just beginning to sprout. I hope you enjoy…
Spring sends me out into the garden, where I'm eager and enthusiastic but not particularly experienced. I love to feel the grass tickling my toes and the dirt slipping through my fingers. I love fresh air, pink cheeks and brilliant colors.
Until recently, though, my gardening has been a little haphazard. Generally, my approach has gone something like this: Wander through a local greenhouse in search of a bright plant that makes my heart skip a beat. Bring it home, rip it out of the pot and plop it into a vacant spot of hard earth in the yard. No mess, no fuss, no preparation and no follow through. If a plant doesn’t survive my random care and spotty doses of water, then perhaps it just wasn't meant to live in my garden of tough love.
At last I have figured out that beautiful gardens aren't born of such reckless and innocent passion. I've decided that if I'm going to lavish such time and attention on my summer obsession, I might as well be a little less half-witted and a little more whole-hearted about how I go about it. Through experienced friends and a growing collection of gardening books, I've learned about dividing and deadheading. About bone-meal and bloom builder. About importing ladybugs and exporting slugs.
PREPARING TO BLOOM
This spring in particular, I've learned that the most important work goes into a good garden even before the first flower blooms. I've finally figured out that it's the earth beneath the plant that lays the groundwork for its fertility and flourish.
Of course, this means I've done the inevitable, a task that a year ago would have left me rolling my eyes and shaking my head at the insanity of gardeners: I've bought my first big batch of cow manure. I'm hoping that along with a little compost and peat, this investment will replenish my garden's tired soil and send my spring buds spiraling into radiant summer blossoms.
All this helps explain why these days when I settle onto my yoga mat and take my first deep breaths of the morning, I inevitably think of the earth. I consider the many ways I am learning to nurture the ground beneath as I seek to nudge the world into brighter bloom. In the process, I am learning to be just a little more careful and methodical, not just in gardening but in all of life.
As I surrender to the ground beneath me, into my very first yoga pose as I nestle in for my daily bloom, I consider all the ways I can lay the groundwork for the play and poses to come. For the first few moments of my practice, I do nothing more than check back into life, asking myself what I can do today to nourish and nurture my spirit so that I may flourish fully.
These few moments of resting quietly and surrendering to the moment seem to add a healthy dose of ease and breathability to the practice that follows. I’ve learned that if I can find that gentle, inner pulse of life before I begin to move, then when I do finally dip into a happy parade of asanas, they are far less likely to strain my body and far more likely to touch my soul.
I’ve also learned that just a few moments of quiet contemplation - reading a poem or settling into an image that helps me remember who I am - helps place my dog poses and triangles and pigeons into the bigger picture of my life. I remember that yoga isn't about popping through a string of poses just for the fun of it. Rather, it is about finding ways to bloom more fully, to breathe more freely, to add instead of subtract from the care that keeps the world joyfully spinning along.
SMARTER AND WISE
I guess you could say that just as I'm growing a little smarter about my garden, I'm growing wiser about my yoga, too. I’m learning that, especially in our caffeinated culture, one of yoga’s greatest gifts is its reminder to slow down, to be attentive, to take greater care of life. Yoga is supposedly about stilling the disturbances of the mind, and although I can't say I've totally mastered that trick yet, the fact that I’m slowing down means at least I'm moving in the right direction.
My appreciation has deepened for those wise and wonderful teachers who are particularly unhurried and methodical in their approach, who are just as willing to hold us back as they are to push us forward. They know the profound benefits of laying the groundwork, of "training in the preliminaries" as the Buddhists say, of re-sensitizing our bodies to the feeling of life itself. They understand how important it is to allow our whole beings to open and settle in order for us to move and breathe in even and wholesome ways. And they offer us a chance to settle, to rest, to find our home inside, so we can emerge with greater vitality and wisdom.
SLOWING DOWN
There’s just one big problem with all this mindful preparation, whether for a garden or a yoga practice or a life: It requires time, care and wisdom. It requires patience and maturity, and a willingness to keep at least one eye trained on the big-picture, long-haul view of life.
And this makes me tremble just a bit as a teacher. If I focus on the small and simple, if I slow down and settle in, will my students grow impatient? Will they be underwhelmed? Bored? Left wondering why we aren’t dashing through sun salutes at breakneck pace?
But then I gaze at my garden and remember how much delight I take in the slow unraveling of the flowers’ buds, in the faithful unfolding they share. No one hurries them along. No one questions their progress. And no one knows which day they’ll choose to shock us by overflowing into joyous bloom. They spend months deep in the earth preparing for their short and showy spring. And then with just a little bit of help - a little sun, a touch of spring, and an occasional dose of fertilizer - they stun us with their effortless unfolding.
Maybe it’s the same for us. Maybe our job is to prepare ourselves well, to lay the groundwork with care and heart. And then to step back, with full faith and patience, letting life bloom in its own mysterious and remarkable way.