Morning comes. A new November day dawns. The dahlias that have continued to bloom right up until our first frost must now be “lifted.” That’s the word the professional gardener uses for “digging” them up. They recommend that you loosen the soil around each plant and then gently “lift” the tubers out. Digging them up can damage the tubers. So today, I will “lift” the dahlias and store the tubers away until spring comes again.
The question, “Lift or Dig?” makes me think of our present political climate. It seems there is a whole lot more “digging” going on than necessary. By “digging” I mean “demeaning, belittling, and running rough-shod” over one another. Lifting, it seems to me, is the way to go not only with the dahlias, but with one another, regardless of our particular political bent. Today, I’m going to lift the dahlias. No digging! Lifting does not bruise or wound the dahlia tubers. We, all of us, are worth far more than tubers. We are “more than object, tree or leaf.” In November 2014, I wrote in my journal:
I look out the window, as the rain still comes down and see the chaos upon the lawn.
I see leaves, once green upon the trees, but now brown and wet and glossy covering the ground,
The rain patters still against the window panes and listening closely I hear its musical sound.
And the trees, they stand like stark skeletons silhouetted against the gray morning sky,
In this early morning hour, I ask as I have always asked through the years: Who am I?
Surely I am more than a leaf fallen from a tree lying upon the ground brown and wet.
Or a stark skeleton, like the trees appear, under this gray November morning firmament.
Life must be more than an avenue of broken dreams and misplaced hopes,
It must be more than just an acrobat’s balancing act upon a temporary rope.
Is life like winter, cold and dreary, or is it a summer with a hot and blazing sun?
Is life like spring, a bursting forth out of cold soil turned warm and growing buds?
Is life like autumn, leaves upon the ground and the stark skeletons of trees all around?
Or is life all of these combined, a repetitive cycle of seasons, and in each something to be found?
On this cold, rainy November morning all nature seems to be so dreary, fallen leaves and skeleton trees.
But there is more on such a morning that one can know within, if only one would see, really see.
There is more to a November rain than ever imagined in spite of dismal nature’s way
Like a wood carving infused with the life of its creator, I am more than object, tree or leaf, on this gray and rainy November day!