Pages from Jan's Journal

“All the thoughts of a turtle are turtle.”—Ralph Waldo Emerson

I was drawn to the water again on this walk. The sound, the constant movement. I walked to a place in town beside a house which has the stream running directly behind it, almost under it. The spot has some still water on the edges and slowly moving water in the middle. The sound soothes and I think—what are the thoughts of the water? Does it know its destination—does it care? Does the still water envy its rushing relation or does the constantly moving rush yearn to be still?

Looking up, I wonder of the stars. Seeing the stars from our perspective, I imagine that they look down on me. Perhaps, however, they have far better sights to see than this spinning, thinking planet. This flip of perspective, and the quote I chose to focus on tonight, make me think of my son’s hamster.

Poor thing. Night after night she chews on the inescapable bars of her prison (or safe-haven, depending on your point of view). This hamster, Speedy, can’t escape. We learned from her predecessor, Hammy, about how to keep her in there. But, no matter. She rarely runs on her wheel or gnaws on the innumerable hamster chews we’ve tempted her with. Every night, all night long, she grinds her teeth on the bars of her cage. She has succeeded in chipping away at the coating on the bars, but it would take longer than her short life span to actually make any real progress through the metal. I feel for her, as she scurries from one spot to the next, searching for the right place to chew. What can I do? There are no free-range hamsters. It’s not like I can just set her free. But she knows. Although she has only ever known life in a cage—she knows. She knows that all creatures were meant to be free. She knows that somewhere in this world there’s a niche she was designed for that doesn’t include bars, a wheel, and fluffy pink bedding. Her spirit yearns for China, or deserts, or Freedom where she belongs.

Sadly, she can’t get there from here. But, as all the thoughts of a hamster are hamster, she doesn’t know that she’ll never reach her destination. So night after night she tries—tries to find that freedom, the niche, that no living creature can find inside a cage.

March 3, 2006

Our garden is a work in progress—as is the house—as are we ourselves. The people we bought the house from three years ago were not gardeners. They kind of liked to plant thinks, but they weren’t much for caring for what they planted.

The first two years we lived here, we spent pulling out the English ivy that persistently clung to the house and crept into the basement through cracks in the window frames. This same ivy was strangling an ancient quince tree. One removed, we realized what elegance and character the constricting ivy had caused. Underneath four inch thick vines that wrapped around the branches, the bark and limbs were twisted and etched—like raffia, tightly wound and strung to hand decorations for a party. As the spring blossoms come, the picture is complete with bright green tender leaves and swet small blossoms. The poor tree, as beautiful as it is, is still struggling from its confinement. It’s still not always full of leaves and blooms and the fruit it bears is inedible—even the squirrels leave it alone. We fertilize it; we water it; and we hope.

Another vine had overtaken the snowball bush. A bush like a tree. So many stalks and trunks come from the ground that it would take two people to get their arms around the base. Now that the vine is taken care of, the branches bloom profusely in spring, so much that the ground and branches are both covered, and the branches bend to nearly tap the ground. (The boys and I have been known to have “snowball” fights in 80 degree weather).

Tending to the garden has proven as good for me as it has been for our trees. I find that I am not so very different from my garden. I thrive when free from constriction. I have to believe that I can heal from old wounds, slowly inflicted; that those hardships have given me character and strength. Just as the garden needs tending with trimming, weeding, and love, so does my soul need tending with prayer, mass, helping others, and caring for our garden.