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If you blink you will miss the seasons change from Summer to Fall here in the Pacific Northwest.

The weather is brisk, no traces of warmth lingering as the earth travels around the sun. The rain is more intentional, harder and frequent. The winds blow in from Lake Washington, and like a leaf looking for a place to land, my mind wanders back to warmer days, where I discovered the love of a skillful gardener.

It seems easy to love like a gardener. The directions are clear. To grow a flower from a seed or plant, read the directions: “partial sun,” “full shade,” “soil moist,” “avoid oversaturation,” “grow outside,” “seed depth,” “seed spacing,” “cut back.” Simple. Clear.

It seems a skillful gardener would respect these directions because it has been here many times before, and through trial and error acquired the trust to know when to lead and when to respond. The skillful gardener understands this beginning which flourishes when rooted in patience. And through sturdy stems travels attunement, adjustment, and adaptation.

And here I bend. On my knees. Thank all that is good for my daily yoga practice.

I am reminded of that Mary Oliver poem line: “You do not need to walk on your knees.”

Dirt buried under my nails. Sweat peppering my brow. A wide brimmed hat to protect my already damaged fair skin. Runaway strands of hair become the unwelcome guests that stick to my warm and salty cheek and neck. Take it one direction at a time. Ok. Simple enough. And yet, I second guess.

Why do I grow impatient?  I am more weed, less flower. I dig too deep. Shallow means exposure. We are more protected in the dark, cool, cavernous, earth. But rest too deep and nothing gets close enough to nourish our potential for awareness. What am I hiding from? What am I afraid to show? With a gloved thumb, I push myself down to the unreachable spaces. Safe. Stifled.

We are as varied as seeds and plants when it comes to the amount of darkness and lightness we need. How much do we choose to hide? When do we rise to the surface? There are times I have risen to the surface and fed off the nourishment and warmth of love and friendship only to slide back down deep into the dark pockets of a familiar, isolative sanctuary. Or, “false refuge,” says Tara Brach.

I add unnecessary starter soil because, maybe, just maybe, the freshly laid compost is not enough. How did my relational insecurity creep into the well-being of a seed? A seed. Is it me or this little embryo that needs a boost of something more? It is so small. Oh, how I know. Maybe I am not enough. I need to be more. Maybe I need to add more to what I am already to grow in relationships with the same vibrancy, wildness, and strength of a dahlia.

The sun travels west and I notice the day getting away from me like a child learning to walk. I need more time. I need less shade. A familiar thought, “if only I had more time.” Maybe I tried to do too much in one day? So, I rush. I overcompensate to get these seeds to where I think they need to be. Add water. And maybe I add more water because the first round doesn’t seem enough. I water until I can see puddles gathering around the freshly dug holes. Drowning. Smothering.  Suffocating. There. Enough. I need to see to believe. I must have over-pruned my faith last Summer.

And I wonder about the times I have disregarded the needs of my friends or partners. What were their directions that I didn’t read? “More communication.” “More touching.” “More alone time.” “More sex.” “More quality time.” “More support.” And when I didn’t know, how many times did I fail to ask?  I surpass their needs and drive towards my anxiety-laden agenda, a combination of starvation and suffocation that leaves love, like a plant, wilted and confused.

I am fixated on an end goal.

I forget about or haven’t yet learned the tiny actions and moments that make up the tending to, the caring, the asking, the waiting, the knowing, and the humility that comes from loving like a skillful gardener.