A humble tree teaches us about the changing of seasons. In WINTER, we see how strong and beautiful her bare limbs are, In SPRING, she gives us pink blossoms and we play under her branches. In SUMMER, she gives us shade; in AUTUMN, she gives us fruit to eat and piles of leaves to crunch. The old-timers have told us stories of the fairies and little people who come to live under these trees if we took good care of the tree and the garden and believed. There is much more to a garden than meets the eye, and like the fairies and the unseen roots, its deepest source of sustenance, magic, or balance is not often visible.

All parts of a tree speak. The roots tell about the dark underground life in the soil—like our own soul life—that sustains growth. The trunk holds the heart of the here and now of daily life, connecting the two realms. The crown resides—like birds and the angels up in the sky, like our spirits—transforming light into life. And each season brings us in touch with the cycles and rhythms of life and our own wild, ever-connected soul nature.

My intent in these postings is to echo Nature’s cycle and the reflection on the garden and on life, season by season. I begin with WINTER, the time for dormancy and going inward, the quiet, reflective, bare-bones part of the year. This is the season for pruning out dead wood and bringing precious illumination to the dark night of our souls.

Just as we all can find joy and nourishment in our gardens—by digging deep into the earth, pruning, planting, weeding, rediscovering—so can we revel in the beauty, mystery, and challenges in our lives. The garden can be a vehicle to connect with one’s soul. It provides you with spiritual sustenance, just as the soil sustains the plants that flourish within it.

And so it is that I use my life’s teachings and all the guidance and inspiration around me to bring you the SACRED SPACE musings. I hope you enjoy them. This is about mine, and possibly your, Garden of Life.

Winter is a time of purification, cleansing, making space for the new to arise. Winter storms can cause great destruction, including flooding and rock slides, and even cause precious, magnificent old trees to come down. When such a tree falls we are forced to confront change—like the sudden illness or death of a loved one—of which, December (past), I experienced the passing into spirit of my beloved father. Decisions must be made about what to do with the tree, how to use it, and how the garden must now adjust to the empty space and new source of light. When the Dalai Lama was asked how he could withstand the loss of so many of his friends—a million Tibetans were killed by Chinese troops in 1959—he said . . ."' that the loss of a friend brings sadness for a time, but then there is room for new friends. This is faith in continuum: that more friends will come, and the love and memory of those gone are still with us.'" The felled tree can make room for new plants, like new friends. Plus, the dead tree can become useful in itself—(in the Native American path—this is the trees give-away)—such as a bench for contemplation, as firewood for warmth, as food for all kinds of life.

Winter is a time of evaluation. At this time of year it is valuable to decide what things we did well the previous year and want to maintain and repeat, and what can be improved. It is time to let go of any pain, bad habits, or negative thinking, and bring with me/you an appreciation for the goodness, love, and growth I/you have experienced. This is especially important when something traumatic has occurred, like the loss of a great tree in the garden or a loved one in our life—to bring their love and memory along with us into the new year.

Winter, cold and dark, is a time to experience the empty space, to embark on our personal journey, to look for our star. The light we all long for, seek, and need, especially at this time of year, is more that the sunlight—it is the illumination and warmth of love. This is why the hospitality of a friend’s hearth and their loving embrace mean so much to us, especially during the dark times. As we carefully prune the trees to allow more light to find its way in, we too cherish the sunny spots—a gentle, luminous light that give us a radiant feeling of warmth and comfort.

Still we must trust the goings on and stirrings under the earth. We need not dig up the seeds and shine a light on them to see if they are indeed growing. They need their quiet, restful time of darkness to send out their roots. There are times in our life for acceptance and nurture, when digging up the psyche is inappropriate and can even disturb growth. And there are times in our gardens for contemplation, rest, and dormancy.

Gardening for soul enrichment—purification, evaluation, experiencing the empty space—is a completely different approach than gardening to satisfy the ego. Our soul needs authenticity—the real thing—but with kindness and gentleness, not harshness or at the cost of others, including the cost made to Mother Earth.

A sacred space can give one a kind of nurturing. Light candles and build a fire and hold in memory your blessings and the great love you have for those who have passed on. Sometimes we might have to cover up and go into solitude and silence and trust that growth will come after this cold, dormant time. Liken this to when you plant and cover the bulbs and seeds with soil, committing them to the darkness with the faith that, at the right time, when the soil is warmed, they will grow.

Patience, warmth, and sustenance will bring about the growth we desire in our bulbs, our souls and our friends.

Our gardens can teach us a lot about patience. Indeed, gardens grown without patience all look alike: fast-growing, over-fertilized lawns and shrubs, and impatient flowers.

Faith is expressed by the soul gardener who trusts the dormancy, the fallow times. Treasure the emergence and be gentle and protective of your soul during adverse conditions. There will be a flourishing.

PART 2: AWAKENING and MORE
With permission, parital excerpts from Elizabeth Murray