From the Moderator

"Loss and Weeding the Garden"

I'm not the best one to discuss gardening. The last time I gardened, I was in the third grade and everything dried up when we went on vacation. I did keep some nice house plants before the cats came to live with me and destroyed them. But my boyfriend had a beautiful garden this year, and I enjoyed watching it grow as he fiddled with this and that, even transforming some straggly little strings into gigantic sunflowers.

In urban gardens, at least, there is only so much room. Each plant needs a certain amount to grow and be healthy. If crowded, sunlight is blocked, root systems become entangled, and the whole garden suffers. Some plants don't make it, and they are removed to allow others to flourish.

I'm going through a stage where I use the garden as a metaphor. The death of my mother left a giant space in my personal garden this year. But she herself viewed her passing as the making of room for others to grow. Years ago, she wrote a piece about the decaying dead trees in a forest nourishing the new ones coming up. When she asked that writing to be included in her memorial service, we knew she viewed her death as part of the life cycle.

My grandparents and two aunts also died this year. Though I wasn't close to them, the losses affect other family members I love, creating more empty spaces. A cousin, for example, grieves that her one year old daughter will never know these people whose absence she feels so keenly.

Death is an extreme loss, but there are others. Because I was preoccupied, I'm only now remembering that while I was near Mom's hospital bed, my storage unit was broken into and all of my Christmas things were stolen. The lights and cheap shiny balls can be replaced easily enough, but probably not the huge collection of holiday music recordings, and certainly not the ornaments my grandmother gave me when I was a child. Neither can the nativity pieces my mother purchased for me when I moved to Colorado, including the little wooden baby Jesus my cat plays - played - with every year. I could mourn the loss of these tokens, and I probably will, but using the garden image, I'll try to envision the space they leave as a means to let some healing light in. Instead of cramming my home full of new glitter and forced cheer, I'll take a break this year. I won't pretend that Christmas isn't happening: I'll spend a few days with my family and watch Rudolph on TV, and I'm looking forward to frosted sugar cookies. But I'm going to give myself a little room to feel the losses. I think growth is possible in the new spaces.

The metaphor also applies at Sixth Avenue. As I comb my address book in preparation for holiday letters, I count up those who aren't coming to our church anymore. I think of some of our long-time rituals and traditions which have been weeded out to make room for new ones. Since I'm tending my life's gardens anyway, I think I'll allow myself to miss it all - to mourn the changes and allow for some empty space. After a period of rest, the warmth of spring sunlight will energize a new cycle of growing, including the giant sunflowers of next summer.

Bill Calkins