It’s Memorial Day morning and I have made my way down to my basement through a tiny crawl space where cardboard boxed memories sit still. I am sure that these little treasure troves have been patiently waiting for just the right person to give them a breath of fresh air. So today, the 25th of May, 2020, in this remote area of the house, I silently hear, “So glad you came to visit.”
I am drawn to one box more than the others, and I see it is filled with photos of one of our last trips together as a family before my Dad was diagnosed with terminal cancer. It is a trip that we made to the Butchart Gardens in British Columbia, Canada. To me, those gardens represented everything beautiful nature had to offer on 55 majestic acres. The melding of florals, greenery and the intricacy of the landscape were a sight to behold.
Shortly after arriving home from that wonderful vacation, I had decided I wanted to plant my own little paradise with my own two hands. I found gardening to not only be therapeutic, but it allowed me to be creative while being in the present. With my trowel and garden fork securely positioned in my dominant hand, I considered this a good form of exercise while simultaneously getting a healthy dose of Vitamin D. Those pesky weeds didn’t stand a chance as I put them in the black Hefty outdoor bag that laid by my side.
Metaphorically, these weeds also symbolized thoughts in my mind that needed to be uprooted. Negative thoughts that no longer served any purpose. It was time to let go and let my spiritual garden grow too.
I will forever miss how Barney enjoyed watching me from our front steps while his ears danced in the wind. I am not afraid to admit that even months later. Just as the green gardening hose gets tied up in knots, so does the grieving process. There are still some kinks to work through, but I know that one day, new flowers will bloom and the cycle of life will reveal itself in all its glory.