My dad loved country music. Long before I liked some of the songs he listened to or the musicians he favored, I loved how he welcomed sound into his whole being and then expressed his joy, happiness, or sorrow by singing along. Dad had a speaking voice that was deep, and he could sometimes be a gruff man. If he were talking to you, you knew you had better listen. But his singing voice was a sweet and warmly resonant bass that he could lay down as smoothly as the likes of Richard Sterban, Harold Reid, Don Williams, Waylon Jennings, Merle Haggard, or Johnny Cash ever did.
A photograph of the author’s father [S. Barker]
Snapping his fingers in perfect time with the music, he would smile in an invitation to share in the experience of embodying the lyrics and tune of the song that was playing. I could never resist. Except for one tiny, bring your own lawn chairs, listen in the park music night when I was in high school, we never attended any musical performances together, and neither of us ever asked the other to listen to a song or a band. Our rare moments of musical connection happened at random times when a random song played over the radio or from an 8-track or cassette tape. They were small pieces of time, little things that made it into the trove of memories held safe in my heart.
It never surprises me when my dad shows up in memory or visitation when I am thinking about the Adirondacks or wandering in the woods somewhere. Those were his places and my places, and another one of the connections that we shared. He was not a gardener, did not like plants, and did not like being outdoors in hot weather. He spent years trying to murder a lilac tree my mother planted in the middle of a narrow strip of lawn, causing him to have to mow around it. Gardens were not his thing when he was living, and I cannot imagine that they would have become his thing after he moved into another realm. However, my mom was most certainly his thing, and in life, he considered it his job to escort her from one place to another. I suppose it should be no surprise either that with as often as I have sensed her in my gardens through this spring and summer, he would be nearby, waiting to take her wherever she wants to go next. That was the sort of thing he would do when he was alive.
A bicolored sweat bee on a black-eyed susan flower [B. Rhodes]
During this past Spring, I added more plants to the native garden I started last fall. Not long after that, I noticed that some unseen visitor was devouring the leaves of all the black-eyed Susans. Still a youngster on this journey to re-wild the world, my first thought was about how to get rid of the offending monster without using harmful chemicals. I posted that question in an online gardening group and then sat in the garden swing to meditate and observe the gardens.
As I was watching honeybees wander in and out of the salvia, one of my dad’s favorite songs started playing on the radio in my head, so I pulled it up on a music app and listened to the Oak Ridge Boys sing about how “…it’s the little things that make me love you so.” Of course, the song brought the memory of my dad alive, and as I sang along, I could hear his voice so clearly, I was certain he was sitting right next to me on that swing.
After the Boys, Dad, and I were done singing, I checked my social media. The comments on my post were supportive, encouraging, and friendly. I am finding that most groups of people who are trying to re-wild the world one garden at a time make an effort to be kind to each other.
When I was planning the native garden, I gave a great deal of thought to the bees and other pollinators that would be helped by the presence of native plants. I knew that more species of birds would be drawn in, and I hoped that, eventually, the garden would call in more rabbits and other smaller-sized mammals. What I did not think about, because it was beyond the scope of my then-knowledge about ecosystems, was that native plants will draw in native insects who like to eat them. As explained in one comment, those bugs will draw in other native bugs who, in turn, eat them, and other native species will come to eat them, too. And so it goes, and so it goes, and so mote it be.
One commenter wrote, “Seriously, plant more of them and enjoy being part of the ecosystem!”
Another, now my favorite gardening comment of all time, “If nothing’s eating your garden, you’re doing it wrong!”
When I was done reading the comments and laughing at myself, I thought about the song I had just been singing along with. Synchronicity, is thy name Raymond? Was my detail-oriented dad, who disliked gardening but loved nature, trying to remind me how much even the smallest things matter? In all my dreams and thoughts about the native garden, I had been looking up and out, but I was not as inclusive or small in my thinking as I should have been.
Salvia and fairy roses in the author’s garden [S. Barker]
My musings about the importance of little things started out as a shift in practice and perspective related to caring for my gardens and quickly became a shift in my state of being that strengthened my spiritual practice and brought new insight into my own shadow work. The song, the gardens, and the situation reiterated the need to approach practical and magical work with an open mind and a willingness to continue seeking, seeing, and listening. That there is always more to learn and that building connections within supportive, knowledgeable communities is becoming increasingly important as the world continues to change.
As a solitary practitioner, I have sometimes felt overwhelmed by and alone with the magnitude and madness of current events. I needed this reminder that while I must maintain an awareness of what is happening around me, as an individual, I cannot stand against the immense force of a hurricane or douse the flames of already burning forest fires. However, that does not mean I am helpless. I have the power and ability to continue to work on material world change and healing by acting with intention and being mindful of being inclusive with every action I take.
It is hard, sometimes, to hold awareness of every detail and piece of a structure or process. What is not hard, or should not be hard, is to acknowledge when mistakes or wrong choices are made, welcome the opportunity to learn and grow, apologize if harm has been caused, and then move forward. Then when once again in forward motion, pay attention to the little things. For myself, I am choosing to slow down. To continue to sit still long enough to see the hummingbird dart from flower to flower or watch the way the morning mist dances above the surface of a lake. To open the window to hear the fox call in the night. To listen to the chickens talk. To put a pebbled dish of water out for the bees. These little things are part of the melody of the song the Earth sings to me, and I welcome the sound of her song into my whole being.
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