Motion

I love to think of my garden as in constant motion.   I smile to remember all those times I was told that animals move, plants don’t.   My plants never have heard that, so they are free to ignore it.   So do I.

I walk through my garden at least once a day, visiting and greeting all its residents.   It can be a rowdy bunch.   Some of those perennials have no reserve about constantly venturing into their neighbors’ area.   That Lysimachia has no respect for personal space.

There is hardly a hosta in my garden that is not reaching out  for a better place in the light, no matter that they are shading their companions.    I am routinely corralling the roaming Tovara into one corner of the garden.  So much Wild Ginger has ended up in the compost bin that I’m surprised that it still is so obsessed with wanderlust.

I watch my garden twist and turn, without the help of the wind.    I think of all the activity in the cells and internal structure.   I watch them slowly stretch and change shape between my visits.   I see their leaves breathing in carbon dioxide and exhaling oxygen.    I join the circle and take a deep breath of their constant flow of oxygen.

I’m convinced that everything is likely in motion because of the energetic nature of things.   Everything around me is alive with activity, even if I don’t have the eyes that can see it.  This desk, this keyboard, this chair, my space;  all are vibrating with an enthusiasm I can only imagine.

My garden, however, makes no secret of its vibrant activity.    It is in constant and exuberant  motion, internally and before my eyes.   Some of its action is a slow-motion dance.    I love when I get invited to join in the dance.