My father was a gardener. Oh, a fancy title that didn't quite fit on the business cards he printed up by hand was "Landscape Design and Architect" but I am pretty sure he was okay with the gardener title. He used to say, "it's a noble profession. Afterall, the first job God gave Adam was to tend the garden..." He loved puttering about, creating spaces for plants, putting seemingly unrelated bushes together, knowing that when they bloomed they would create a canopy of color for the birds to nest in. He helped me plant a seed in the front yard one time, without telling me what it was. Thirty years later, it was a towering redwood tree, right there in the middle of a Los Angeles suburb. I wonder if the humans of the future will marvel at its placement and wonder from whence it came?
Dad used to say he wasn't a practicing Christian, but rather a practical Christian. Oh, he would stuff himself into a starched shirt, put on a bolero tie, dress up in a fancy suit with suspenders, polish up his cowboy boots, slap on some Old Spice and with three fingers, place his Stetson on top of his head just so. We would climb into the truck and head out to our brick and mortar church. Sometimes, we left really early in the morning, all gussied up, only to wind up in the little church 150 miles from home where they looked forward to our visits because I was the only person they knew that could play the piano. Those church days would turn into singing days, sermons forgotten, protocol and structure set aside just so they could sing their praises to Jesus on the days they had someone to play along and keep them on tune.
But the best church days were the days when I would find dad in his easy clothes and he would tell me to put on my jeans and my boots and grab my jacket. I knew we were doing something different because he would have the all the fixins' for a picnic lunch spread out on the table. Peanut butter sandwiches cut into fours, oranges and apples all cleaned and polished, celery sticks and carrots cut up and put in baggies. He put as much care into prepping our lunch as he did primping for regular go-to-meetin' church services. We would pile into the old green Chevy and head for God's Church. Dad wasn't one for maps, so we would just head for the hills and see where the road took us. Many times I remember him saying, "I wonder where this road goes?" as he would make a sharp right and head off into the unknown.
Out of the city, into the mountains above our home, sometimes exploring out into the desert that sat behind the mountains, I discovered a whole new language of God. I discovered spiritual lessons that made more sense than my book lessons were trying to teach me. I found that all of God Nature is connected to a Source of Life, that, if you pluck or pull or detach nature from its source, it will stay pretty for awhile, but it will eventually wither up and die. I learned that God Nature is not to be feared, but it is not to be disrespected either. I learned that there were plenty of paths to explore, but it was wise to always look to where you were putting your hands or feet before you actually put them there. I learned to be quiet in God Nature and to listen with my heart to the different creatures that surrounded me. I found out that you cannot see wind in God Nature, but you can see how it moves the trees and the bushes and even the smells through the forest. In God Nature my father showed me the true circle of life - how nothing goes to waste, but rather, even when it dies, it goes back to God Nature to nurture and nourish the next generation. In God Nature I learned that I never had to fear death, only to embrace it as part of living. On these forays into God Nature, I discovered colors that just couldn't be reproduced out of my crayon box. The purple lupines that looked like a royal carpet spread across the hills, the shy pale violets resting in the rotting wood of a fallen pine tree. The shades of green that varied from the graceful palm fronds by the pool of water to the moss on the rocks behind trickle of a stream as it washed over a cliff.
All of these things my father showed to me... he didn't lecture, he didn't try to impress me with his knowledge. He would simply place his big hands on my shoulders, quietly willing me to stand still and listen and watch. His delight was in my joy of awareness. In watching as my eyes grew big with wonder at the deer standing in the clearing or the fascination with the fuzzy ants carrying their larger-than-life finds back and forth with the determination of a creature with a purpose. He would ooh and ahh at my discoveries, as though it was the first time he had seen the seeds some squirrel had poked inside a pine cone or had ever smelled the pungent sage I had crushed between my fingers. Getting dirty was never punished, nor was getting my feet shoes wet and muddy. Clothes could always be washed or replaced if needed. God Nature was to be experienced full out, no holds barred, with eyes and arms wide open. I was taught what was to be left alone (skunks, porcupines, and poison oak) and what you could pick up and touch (fall leaves, pine cones, and frogs if you could catch them). I learned what you could use in God Nature to survive and what to do if you get lost. I was never afraid in God Nature.
Long after my dad was too frail to go to God Nature, I would do my best to bring it to him. I still brought my discoveries, my wonders, my fascinations. And on warm spring days, I would get my father dressed in his easy clothes, three-finger place his hat on his head, and wheel him out to the garden where we would sit quietly, watching, listening, and breathing in God Nature. Look over there, do you see it? Shhhh.. quiet now. If you sit real still, you're gonna see something beautiful.. Something God created just for you.
