Weeds and Flowers and Massage

     I had a new client last week. She came in and looked around and said something a bit surprising and pleasing. She said she likes how I had arranged my studio and home, how everything seemed to be placed with great intention, in just the right spot.  This is indeed my goal, to create an environment that will help people to relax the moment they walk in.  I had forgotten to observe for myself that I had achieved my goal.        This came up again a few days later when I looked out at my garden and saw all the work undone, the weeds un-pulled.  Then remembering what my client had said, my vision sort of shifted and I saw the beauty of the flowers, and the care that had gone into creating the timing of the flowering, the height of the plantings, and I saw it as someone else might see it.  Just a beautiful, peaceful place.
     As a gardener most of my time is not, as one might think, spent nurturing the flowers, but pulling the weeds. By removing what is not desired, space and resources are freed up.The desirable plants know how to grow on their own, they don't need me for that.
     So too does your body know how to heal itself.  In a way, when you come in with sore shoulders, achy hands, or a sore elbow, I'm still pulling weeds. By the careful unraveling and elimination of the tension and pain that has accumulated, stores of energy and resources are available for physical healing and emotional balance.
    Pull the weeds, and flowers grow.  Get a massage, and health flows!

Peace

Independence Day poem, July 4, 2013

On the (physical)  poetry post in the garden, for the last three years, I have posted a special 4th of July poem.  This year I will post it here as well.  It's an oldie, but still a goodie.


I Hear America Singing


I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear;
Those of mechanics—each one singing his, as it should be, blithe and strong;
The carpenter singing his, as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his, as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work;
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat—the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck;
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench—the hatter singing as he stands;
The wood-cutter’s song—the ploughboy’s, on his way in the morning, or at the noon intermission, or at sundown;
The delicious singing of the mother—or of the young wife at work—or of the girl sewing or washing—
Each singing what belongs to her, and to none else;
The day what belongs to the day—
At night, the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing, with open mouths, their strong melodious songs.


---- Walt Whitman (from Leaves of Grass,

first published in the 1867 edition)



Remember what it took to build this nation, and all the nations that were here that were subsumed.   Let's continue to build

PEACE
for the tree and stone
for the grass and the leaves,
the children and brook
the people and the river
the earth and all her children
all   the people of the rainbow
praying for 
peace.