‘So come, and slowly we will walk through green gardens and marvel at this strange and sweet world.’ –Sylvia Plath

I laughed when I got this prompt from Anna because, first of all, I love Sylvia Plath and gardening is very close to my heart. It immediately made me think of my great grandmothers and the gardens they had in their backyards. I feel like somehow I came to know a lot about the world from watching them garden and having a chance to be so close to them throughout my early life.

Sometimes I catch a little crticism over being such a homebody. I am a classic introvert (a fact I plan to write more about in the future) and really do prefer to live my days in the quiet. My favorite quiet is the type you find out-of-doors, early in the morning, when the birds and frogs and tiny forest-dwellers are yawning and stretching as they emerge from the safety of their beds.

Part of me thinks that this joy I find in the quiet of the morning, in the gently undulating changes of the seasons, might be inherited from these women and maybe some even further back than them. It is too late to tell them now, and I didn’t understand at the time, but I wonder if they knew that their quiet, grateful living was a testament — to a life lived in appreciation of moments and a steadfast faith that their needs would be met.

What I can look back and see in them, what I hope to emulate in my own life is an attitude that belies this fact — we are surrounded by a beautiful and marvelous world, as far away as the banks of an eastern sea warmed by a low-hanging sun and as close as a foggy mist of breath on an early spring morning. You need only look…and give thanks.

This morning I am linking up at LoveFeast Table about Gathered Thoughts. Click over and check out more posts inspired by these quotes.

Every writer wants to be believed

♥ the scent of maple syrup mingling with fluffy, buttery pancakes in the morning
♥ extra blankets
♥ accepting life as it is, right now
♥ a freshly mopped floor
♥ borrowed books
♥ “Every writer wants to be believed. But every writer knows he is spurious; every fiction writer would rather be credible than authentic.” – John le Carré
♥ warm sheets when the weather turns cold
♥ words spilling onto the page
You are the stream, the fish, the light,
the pulsing shadow.
You the unchanging presence, in whom all
moves and changes.
How can I focus my flickering, perceive
at the fountain’s heart
the sapphire I know is there? – Denise Levertov