I have erased more words this week than I have
written. Make that for two weeks. The longer my brain freezes up, the more
stressed I become. Compulsively checking the internet a hundred times a day
isn’t helping. The news makes my throat close up. I actually choked on an
innocent sip of coffee the other day while watching the news. It’s hard to
avoid, really.
I think I’ve mentioned here before how much I love
gardening. (That seems like a right turn,
but stay with me here.) When I was younger, I never thought much about why
I gardening spoke to me. I just loved the way flowers looked in my yard. Learning
to care for the rose bushes I planted, how to meticulously cut them back in
winter and feed them in the spring and earn an explosion of blooms as my reward.
The miracle when the Boysenberries on my back fence produced juicy berries that
would fill buckets and get shared with neighbors and friends. My tomatoes
graced salads all summer long beside the basil, peppers and zucchini I grew.
I squeezed in my gardening time around my writing
schedule and my children, and discovered it filled my well in a way other
things could not. But still, it was just something I did. I was intentional
about it, but I suppose I took it for granted. I would always have a garden,
right? There will always be the next planting season.
Nope. Having moved to the mid-west to be nearer our
daughter and grandkids, we don’t have a garden space and now I found myself
longing for one. Never more than these last couple of weeks when I realize that
planting growing things is an investment in the future. A promise, if you will,
that things will get better, more abundant. Even hopeful. I need that.
In the same way, the books I write are an investment
in that same hopefulness. I suppose that is why we are drawn to romance, the
promise of a happy ending, the hope that everything will work itself out. In my
books, seeds of promise are planted and the fun is watching them grow, despite
adversity. And whether we’re gardeners or writers, activists or mothers,
planting hope is something we women are pretty good at. We tend to that hope in
different ways, but right now, I think it’s important to remember that we are
the keepers of the garden. The watchers of the blooms.
This week, I bought some fancy, imported, double Dutch
tulip bulbs for my daughter’s garden (Yay! She’s willing to share!) and
yesterday I put them in the ground. The bulbs were smooth and plump and ready
for the cold winter to come. Bursting with promise for next spring. I fed them
a little bone meal and tucked them under the soil for the winter. And one day,
late next spring, they’ll surprise me. Little green buds will come pushing out
of the soil. And when they bloom, I’ll remember this day I planted them with
their secret promise to remind me that “Hope
is a thing with feathers,” (Thanks, Emily Dickenson) or, in my case,
petals.
Happy Thanksgiving all!
Barbara’s latest book, “The Cowgirl’s Christmas
Wish”—a story chock full of hope and the third installment of her The Canadays
of Montana series—is available now at all e-retail outlets and is available in
print.
