bumblebees, bald eagles, and blackberry bushes

I scrub. I pour water. Then I scrub a bit harder. I try to get the soil out from beneath my fingernails and toenails, from the crease in my elbow, and the tiny places between the toes. I've been playing in dirt again - I've been doing that a lot this summer. And there's something remarkably beautiful that happens when we play in dirt.

When I dig through compost with children while looking for worms, beetles, springtails, flies, and other interesting creatures that help to break down waste, I think about my waste or bad things that can become a joy and blessing to someone else. I've learned that the moments when I'm weak and hurting and confused, when shared with someone else, becomes opportunities of strength, joy, and healing.

When I go to the flower garden with children to pick flowers, frightened faces quickly appear as the bumblebees make their presence known. I think about how our fear, perceived real, can be soothed and calmed with a reassuring voice and a person who will stay by our side.

When I help a child to touch a tree for the first time and really feel the rough bark, the rippled edges, the soft and fragile moss, I think about how we can learn through touch. I think about all our senses and how to use them to fully experience life.

When I squat by the pond, net in hand, beside a child who is tempted to just jump into the pond to catch a pacific tree frog, I think about how our boundaries can limit us in healthy and positive ways.

When I quietly walk around the meadow with binoculars securely fastened around my neck and listen for a bird's call, I think about the gift of listening: those who listen to me and those who allow me the privilege to listen to them. Then when I find a bald eagle soaring high above the cedar trees, I think about perspective. A bald eagle sees things differently from up above. Sometimes I wonder what the bald eagle sees. And I wish I could be a bird to get a different perspective. But there are bald eagles in my life who offer me a different perspective also.

When I plant a seed in the ground, bury it, then water it, I think about growing. The smallest black seed needs the right amount of water, sunshine, and temperature to grow. It needs to be loved by being weeded, thinned, pruned, and pests removed. And pretty soon, the black seed turns into vibrant colours, into fresh fragrance, into delicious and nutritious foods, into soft leaves, into a space where the wind creates soothing sounds. And with time, patience, love, and grace we too can become something beautiful.

When I give the carrot tops to the cow, and watch as the cow hastily swallows the greens, I think about hunger. Hunger comes in different forms (physical, emotional, spiritual, mental) and when it comes, we need to eat. The cows have taught me that.

When I lead children through the forest and we find a blackberry bush, we momentarily stop and search the bush for some ripe fruit. Then we each pick a few, watch our hands turn a deep violet-red as we put the tender fruit into our mouths. Once the taste remains in our mouth, we continue our walk. I think about all the ripe fruits that I often miss during my walk through life. And I'm learning to stop and pick the fruit before running on.

I scrub. I pour water. Then I stop. Maybe I don't actually want to scrub the dirt away. It's too beautiful.