Ok, remember that quasi-New Year’s resolution about blogging more? Yeah. Total fail.
Lately I have been soaking in life and not writing about it. Sometimes it’s nice just to live and not think about how you will tell someone else about what you did. Facebook and Twitter like to whisper in my ear that things aren’t real unless you put them on the Internet — which is total nonsense. But they also aren’t less real if you put them on the Internet, which is what some pretentious young men in tweed will tell you. So here I am, writing.
Today was a delicious day. The sun was shining and warm. I went on two walks, reveling in how happy the world seems when you can go outside without a coat.
It was so warm that I decided I should plant these roses, given to me by a wonderful boy on Valentine’s Day.
Marieke’s generous mother gave us the beginnings of a garden last year. I confess I haven’t done the best job of keeping it up, but I’m determined to change that. I pulled out all the vines and winter weeds today, and I’m excited to do some spring planting. Our bulbs planted last fall are already poking through the dirt. There’s nothing like planting in the earth to remind me of my utter dependence on heaven. I can’t make anything grow on my own.
The dirt felt good in my fingernails, and reminded me of this passage from Candide:
“‘All events form a chain in the best of all possible worlds. For in the end, if you had not been given a good kick up the backside and chased out of a beautiful castle for loving Miss Cunégonde, and if you hadn’t been subjected to the Inquisition, and if you hadn’t wandered about America on foot, and if you hadn’t dealt the Baron a good blow with your sword, and if you hadn’t lost all your sheep from that fine country of Eldorado, you wouldn’t be here now eating candied citron and pistachio nuts.’
‘That is well put,’ replied Candide, ‘but we must cultivate our garden.'”