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.

~May Sarton

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?

when memories fade

Just as a mother would protect her only child with her own life,

So with a boundless heart may you cherish all living beings.

~The Buddha