I'm learning Choctaw. It's painfully slow, and my brain and tongue have formed an uncooperative alliance against my best intentions, but still I try. I stick post its to things in the house. "LUAK" on the fireplace. "CHUKKA" behind the front door. "AKAKOSHI" flutters to the floor when I pull the egg carton from my refrigerator. The words fall from my stubborn brain like the post its that fall to the floor. It's humbling to be so bad at something. But I have great respect for the land I live on, and if you respect the land, you must respect the people of the land.
Neshoba, the county I live in, comes from the Choctaw word for wolf. Nearby Okatibbee translates to "icy water", or "ice therein." Mississippi, surprisingly, is not a Choctaw word, it's from the Ojibwe, who lived in Northern Minnesota where the river begins and it means "the gathering of all waters," or "great river." I prefer the lyrical former. In some Native languages the word for plants translates to "The Ones Who Take Care of Us," a phrase that shifts perspective so lovingly, it settles around my heart like a quilt around the shoulders.
Autumn has come to my ungarden. Besides some fruit trees and daylilies, I hadn't planted anything in the yard this spring. All through the busy, busy summer and the impossibly even more busy and stressful past two months, I had a little twinge of sadness and regret for what was not planted. The tall grass and unruly weeds seemed to reflect what was going on inside of me; it was overwhelming, and although the growth (like the grass) was prolific, it brought me a diminished joy.
When I was a child, I learned a simple prayer that remains with me today.
"Bless us for the gifts we are about the receive. May they nourish and strengthen us to do good works. Bless the hands that provide and prepare, for this may we truly be grateful."
As a child, I always felt a twinge of guilt if my hands had not helped prepare it. Who was I to sit at a table and feast from labors not my own? I looked around and saw I had no hand in my garden and that I had neglected my relationship with the plants in my care.
On the first cool morning, I turned the corner and found a second blush on the roses that came with the property. The same two rose bushes I wrote about resurrecting here. Three more fragrant crimson blooms on the OG and a half dozen silvery white blossoms on her shy sister. It is the first time they've bloomed twice in one year.
Then the Clara Curtis mum, planted hastily last year after it endured plant purgatory for a good 6 months, burst into abundance. It had been a gift from a garden tour, born from another garden. She toppled over by an embarrassment of riches. A proliferation of pale pink flowers with soft yellow eyes bobbing in the breeze.
In one of the empty garlic beds, a Rama Tulsi doubled in size, almost overnight. Also a gift from another garden, I was skeptical the little twig would pull through after limping along for a year. Seemingly overnight, she filled have the oversized bed. Tulsi (or Holy Basil) is a sacred plant in Vedic traditions that symbolizes love and devotion. I have found much needed moments of peace these past few weeks, watching the bees dance with the delicate spires of the Tulsi. She hums with life.
An intrepid Black Eyed Susan Vine from a seed dropped two years ago winds up part of a fence. She coils around the wire, aiming for the sun, impervious to how forlorn she looks. Determined to bloom.
"The Ones Who Take Care of Us" rings through my heart in these small moments. They are not of my hand, yet I am cared for and fed all the same. I am grateful for their company; and as always, my botanical world crafts the lens through which I experience my current conditions.
My daughter came to visit earlier in the month. It was a short surprise visit, but she wanted to be with me; she helped me at the Farmer's Market, she walked with me in a park because I told her that's what I really needed. I was worried she would be disappointed with the dearth of fun and the overstock of work during this trip, but she amazed me as she continues to do. She left sweet notes I keep finding through the house and she sent a cat tree for Santino. The whole visit felt like a precious gift.
The next week, a friend let me borrow some equipment I needed. I insisted I couldn't visit, but she plied me with chocolate chip pancakes and laughter in her bright friendly kitchen. I pet her grouchy-faced kitty and chase her adorable children. Her silky German Shepherd gives me enthusiastic dog hugs. There is so much love in this place. I come in as brittle as a dried leaf and leave nourished by fellowship and pancakes.
A friend invites me to pick the bumper crop of peppers from the garden. We enjoy a gourmet vegetarian lunch while I admire the beautifully landscaped gardens, teaming with more butterflies than I can count. Barefoot, we pick buckets of peppers and eggplants while happy chickens and guineas talk in the background. With the sun on our backs we talk about the Purple Martins and their morning song, above our head are dozens and dozens of Martin houses, more than I've ever seen in one place in my entire life. It's the most perfect October day, and I go home strengthened and sustained to do good works.