True gardeners cannot bear a glove
between the sure touch and the tender root,
Must let their hands grow knotted as they move
With a rough sensitivity about
under the earth, between the rock and shoot,
Never to bruise or wound the hidden fruit.
And so I watched my mother’s hands grow scarred,
She who could heal the wounded plant or friend
with the same vulnerable yet rigorous love;
I minded once to see her beauty gnarled,
but now her truth is given me to live,
as I learn for myself we must be hard
to move among the tender with an open hand,
and to stay sensitive up to the end
Pay with some toughness for a gentle world.
those moments of tending our integrity through our family lines…
inquiry for today~ what reminds you to carry on and tend to whom you care for?
Just as a mother would protect her only child with her own life,
So with a boundless heart may you cherish all living beings.