Cleis' Feature Articles II

May, 1998

As fragrant stems of lavender and chamomile spring forth from the earth behind my house, I am in awe of the beauty, naturalness, and simplicity of my garden. In the 12 months since my first garden, I have collected approximately 10 books on the subject of gardening. Among the ideas that I gleaned from these books, the concept that has most captured my heart and soul's attention is that of creating a garden that gently and gradually flows in with the natural wilderness surrounding in, blurring the raw edges between civilization and nature.
It has also been 12 months since my friend and I have been writing and drawing our gardening article for Envoy. Working our garden and creating for Envoy has been part of both our spiritual journeys. And as often happens on journeys, we are transformed along the way. No longer is the garden we started a year ago big enough for our imagination. As my vision as a gardener and an artist has grown this year, this parallels a shifting of my inward vision to that of restoring naturalness around me. In my mind's eye, I see a huge mountain ahead of me that I must walk up alone, along rugged inclines and sometimes smoother, more level places. Wherever I am, I am always propelled upwards on this mountain. When I close my eyes, the humidity on this day in my own backyard promises me that an awe-inspiring vision of a vast blue silver ocean is visible from the mountain's peak. The yearning to see this ocean of enlightenment and pure bliss, and experience this naturalness of being, is overwhelming. Sometimes I capture images of myself already at the mountain's peak, enveloped by the beautiful deep blue fluidity of heaven's mist.
How can I keep this vision alive? As I think about opening my eyes to my own backyard, I have a need to transform my garden, to let it grow and be free. This year, my garden must become part of the untamed natural world around it. No long is the rectangular-shaped plot my friend and I carved out last summer big enough to be the boundaries for our garden. This year I have plans to transform my backyard into a free-flowing wildflower and herb garden. I have placed a faded blue stone Buddha statue on an old abandoned well at the entrance to the garden. My garden is beginning to have the feel of a natural place for meditation. I'll add some rocks and water...more birds will come...yes, let it have spirit.

When my father was ill with cancer, I was faced with the possibility of his death. As I waited out his prolonged disease, I found The Father, a collection of poems by Sharon Olds. In a society which does not encourage us to openly express our feelings of grief, I found comfort and healing in her words. Someone else understood how I felt. I had found a companion in my grief.
In the poem "The Glass", Olds describes her father as "the dark earth that used to/lie at the center of the universe". How many of us have felt this way about our fathers, a man who appears larger than life? Now that he is sick, however1 the speaker finds he is just like everyone else, "turning with the rest of us/around the bright glass of spit/on the table, these last mouthfuls."
As the speaker discovers the humanness of her father, she also begins to realize her own strength. The images are vivid and disturbing. Her father can barely swallow anymore, and he chokes up mucous into a glass by his bedside. The cancer is present in his throat, and "as it grows it sends out pus like the/sun sending our flares, those pouring/tongues." The daughter watches her father fill this glass, "like some god producing food from his own mouth." Hour after hour, she watches the glass fill up again arid again. She stays and empties the glass: "and the wonder to me is that it did not disgust me."
As Olds characterizes the illness of her father and her feelings, she allows the reader to move through their own process of grief. The gift of The Father is that he is more than just her biological parent; he is the symbol of everyone's loss, whether that loss is a parent, child, lover, or friend. The feelings are universal.