On the road to the west

I went greenhouse exploring yesterday. A girlfriend and I drove an hour south of the city to her favourite greenhouse in the small town of Turner Valley– Vale’s — a delightful oasis of colour and greenery spread out along the joyous sound of the creek flowing through the land.

The drive out was glorious. This is ranching country.  Rolling hills unfolding in spring greenery rolled westward towards the snow-capped peaks of the Rockies. Young foal and calves gamboled in the fields while their patient mothers munched on grass. Houses dotted the countryside. Sprawling fences marched along the horizon, a long thin line marking my land versus your land.

There is no line. There is no my land, your land.  There is only our planet.

At Vale’s I spotted a robin’s nest tucked into a piece of copper garden art, a proud mother sitting on the nest, protecting her chicks.

“What do you do if someone wants to buy that piece of art?” I asked the woman working there.

“We tell them to pick another piece,” she replied without hesitation.

I liked her response. I liked that nature took precedence over commerce. That Vale’s acknowledged the bird’s right to roost over the human desire to acquire, to own, to possess.

There is no line. There is no my land, your land. There is only our planet.

I wandered the greenhouses, loading my cart with annuals and perennials, a metal leaf sculpture, a plaster lion’s head, a bag of earth.

“What’s your colour scheme?” my girlfriend asked.

I laughed. “I don’t have one. I just go with what pleases my nature.”

And when we were done, we drove back to the city, the car laden, the scent of greenery wafting around us, the vibrant hues of pansies and daisies and snapdragons and viola floating in a riot of colour all around us.

I don’t like wearing gloves when I garden. I love the feel of earth in my hands. I love the sensuality of dirt rubbing up against my fingers. The sultry, fecund smell of earth assailing my senses.

Beneath the canopy of the crab apple tree bursting in blossom, I spent the afternoon digging and transplanting, filling pots, moving pots, and arranging them to create splashes of colour on the deck.

And when I was done, I sat back and admired my work and whispered, ‘job well done’.

I am pleased.

Digging into nature is divine.

I spent the afternoon, hands deep in dirt, my mind peaceful in the work of experiencing nature’s beauty unfolding.

I do not own these flowers. I do not own the birds flitting amidst the blossoms of the crab apple tree, pecking at the seed in the birdfeeder, hiding in the hedge. I do not own the grass growing rapidly in spring rains, or the gentle breeze caressing my skin as I work. I do not own nature’s expression — but I can revel in it, experience it, enjoy it and honour it. And I can let my enjoyment and appreciation of it make a difference in how I treat it. I can give way to robin’s nesting in art. I can make room for beauty all around.

There is no line. There is no my land, your land. There is only our planet.

I do not own this planet.

When we let go of owning nature, the world unfolds its wings and opens up in the glory of planet earth’s evolutionary impulse to create beauty in riot’s of colour and birdsong and the simple act of building a nest where life is cherished and protected in a world of wonder.

When we let go of possessing everything we want in the world, we make a world of difference in how we express our appreciation, and awe, of the world around us.