All Shall Be Well.
On May 2, friends gathered in my garden around a blazing fire. As the night darkened, the coals shimmered and sent off heat. I was touched by the essence of the new season. Summer is on the way.
The air chilled, and the next morning I woke to ice on the stairs and whispers of frost on the grass. I knew summer was coming. This changing of seasons — predictable and steady — restores me, gives me hope. A new day will arise, another opportunity will present itself, reminding me that nothing is static.
The seeds I planted in the greenhouse are peeking through the soil. "Be patient," I whisper. "It's still too cold for your tender feet."
The earth awakens, and I join in the joy-filled song of fertility and new life.
For now, I lean back as the fire sends out its warmth and wraps around me. A breeze nudges my face, and, as Julian of Norwich says, "All shall be well."
No matter the world, the garden is my refuge; it is steady. Everything has a place in the order of things. Yes, the weeds abound everywhere. Soon they will die, and something else will grow.
Change is coming. I know this. I will be patient, calm, steady. On my knees, I pull dandelions and smile to myself.
I know. All Shall Be Well.
Copy Edited by Eryn Lent
