Maybe you are a little bit like me. Maybe you’ve been carrying shards of glass from fragile things turned broken around in your purse for a while now. At first they were so heavy that your spine turned crooked and your shoulders sore. But after a while, your back grew stronger and your spine straightened. Your shoulders loosened to relax, and you grew accustomed to the weight.
Maybe you are like me, and you find yourself surveying the scene of how things turned out, over and over again. The scene that is yours looks so unlike the scene that you drew up years ago, but you step through it, sit in it, and make it home.
You once called the shards waste, could not view them as anything but. You saw your scene and named it desert, unable to penetrate the barren.
But there came a day when you dropped your hand into your purse, ready to bleed from the sharp reminders that you carry. And instead of touching shards, you found seeds. You rolled them around in your palm, so smooth they almost tickled.
There came a day when you stepped through your not-how-you-thought-it-would-be scene, the one in which you used to whisper, wasteland, and you saw green breaking through brown. You touched the sand and it turned to soil. You called it garden.
So you scatter your seeds into your soil and wonder what could possibly grow. You sprinkle a little water with a lot of doubt. You offer sunshine with a bout of gratitude. But you keep sprinkling and sunning because if you are like me, hope can look like a lot of little next steps taken.
Maybe you are like me, and you feel the hurt from growing something with your old shards. Maybe you and I are the same in that part of you would like to keep broken glass by your side for a long, long time. Because peering out of hurt is a hell of a lot scarier than staying seeped in it. But you see those sprouts grown from what has come of not-how-you-though-it-would-be, and they tell you that sometimes hurt is just the pulling tight of loss braiding into love.
You watch and wait to see what kind of flowers shard-seeds might grow. You look at the shiny, fresh-cut stems of your friends, arranged in sterling silver vases, on screens and in stories. A little bit of you wishes that your flowers could fit together so nicely, could appear with such ease. But you know that you would take wildflowers over store-bought any day of the year. And when you really look closely at what they have, you see the sparkle of glass in theirs too. For pretty has to grow from somewhere. There’s no such thing as store-bought.
You and I are the same. I just know it. Because though I may not see what’s in your purse, I know that all of our spines are a little crooked. I know that each of us has walked through the land of not-how-I-thought-it-would-be. And broken glass always cuts, no matter how big or small the shard.
So let us sprinkle our shard-seeds, the ones that came from one big shatter, or a lot of little falls. Let us wedge them deep into the garden, the one that we thought was gone for good, or would never even come. Because what we thought would send us to the grave will bring forth the gift of the wildest flowers the world has ever seen. We will bind them up tightly, and these bouquets grown from shard-seeds will be our simple and perfect offering.
(Flowers from Webb's garden)