Nearly Feral

The three-year-old tabby is small for her age at only five pounds. Her dark-gray fur is striped in black with a lovely undercoat of coppery-gold and is surprisingly soft and thick, more like rabbit fur in winter.

Her round little head seems too small for her expressive and large oval eyes, especially when the pupils dilate—anxious at my approach. She is nearly feral and only partially tamed by the priest who cared for her. She needed food and protection from her own kind so he set up a covered cage on his deck where she could eat and sleep in safety. When I adopted her she had two sizeable infected wounds from being attacked by other stray cats and the trip to the vet was traumatic.

When I look at her tiny paws and miniature prick ears, somewhere deep inside a warm gentleness overtakes me. I want so much to cuddle this diminutive kitty and feel her warm purring body against my own. But she is small and frightened, so my patience is required. I have had her long enough that she no longer bolts from the room when I come with her food.

In order to move close to her as she shrinks into the corner I lay on my belly and scooch slowly across the floor, softly repeating her name “Georgia.” Extending my arm and petting her with two fingers, I must be very delicate with my touch. Too much pressure or too near and she’ll dart into hiding. When this happens I wait for her to regain her trust and return to me, that non-priest person.

What I have found works best is to sit on the floor near her with my open hand facing up and resting by my side, but where she is just beyond my reach. This one knows arithmetic well and can calculate exactly how far a human’s arm can reach! If I am patient she will often inch toward me, leaning into my open palm and choosing to feel my touch. She has then decided to be more accepting of my enormity in her little life.

I think of how God is just so with me, waiting patiently just beyond my reach for me to draw near. He waits, knowing I may bolt if I become sensitive to his approaching greatness compared to my littleness. His quietness draws me in as I trust the closeness of the hand that nourishes and protects. And I too, with desire overriding my fears, inch towards that loving touch.

Georgia only comes to me at night after I have settled in for sleep. She softly mews at the foot of the bed until I pull my hand out from under the blankets—palm up and fingers slightly curled. She then comes eagerly when I whisper her name. Curling up next to my hip, she rubs against my fingers a few times, places her round little head in the palm of my hand, and settles down. We both fall asleep in peace.

Copyright 2013 Margaret Rose Realy

I would like to share with you an excerpt from my new book Cultivating God’s Garden through Lent. This is a portion of the entry for Holy Thursday:

Seeds Germinate

The spring retreat I was leading would start in a few hours. At the last minute I decided to make a small gift for the attendees. I took a piece of easily biodegradable paper and wrote a blessing on the outside. Mixing a packet of seeds with a couple of tablespoons of potting mix, I then wrapped a small amount of the seed-soil mix in the paper, tying it all together with garden twine. The attendees would be instructed to bury their blessings in their gardens and wait for what would come into the light…

The miracle of plant seeds is that everything needed for growth is contained within and waiting to be expressed. It is already fertile, has all the DNA needed for living, and is literally hanging in the balance between its current static state and upcoming life.

The size of the seed doesn’t matter; they all contain the genetic material needed to give rise to a new plant. It is like there is a tiny glow at the center of every seed wanting to get out, a fleck of light seeking light beyond the darkness of the soil in which it was planted.

It is awe-inspiring when we realize that God chose the things of the earth to express Himself to us. From the simplest thing of a garden, the seed, comes the greatest revelation. It is from the grain of wheat and the fruit of grapes that we receive bread and wine, bread to nourish and wine to gladden (Ps. 104:14-15)…the Body and Blood of Christ—Eucharist. From that tiny light in a seed to the startling Light of God at Communion, we hear at every Mass “light from light.”

We understand darkness. We were born from a place without light, and our earth was formed out of darkness. Much like the seed to which the absence of light is essential to set root and grow, we too have an inner need for darkness. Without the experience of darkness we would not recognize the Light…

Read more of Margaret’s reflections on spirituality and nature at Morning Rose Prayer Gardens on Patheos.

Copyright 2013 Margaret Rose Realy

“Simeon’s Moment” by Ron DiCianni

There has been an abundance of gift giving in the past six weeks. A box of soy candles, gourmet coffee, and seriously warm slippers offset the questionable functionality of Jingle Bells Spreader Knives (set of four) and a three-tiny-shovels-supporting-a-sunflower clock. Each gift personally selected just for me from those who care.

Everything is a gift if we think about it. We are not entitled to much of anything. For anyone who is, has or will face financial, medical or personal loss, being graced by the gifts of others can be the link to finding happiness in challenging times. Those days or years of uncertainty, staving off hopelessness, praying for a light at the end of the tunnel deepen our gratefulness to those who brought a moment of delight. And we become aware that, beyond the rules of etiquette, we want to thank the giver for their gift.

That is what Mary and Joseph did in accordance with their religious customs and, more likely, from the desire of their hearts. They came to thank God for His gift of a wondrous baby boy, the light of their lives.

But the one who was clearly illuminated by Mary’s baby was that holy man, Simeon. He knew, in a way only Mary knew before him, that the spirit of God was there in his arms. For decades he and the Chosen People had longed and prayed, yearning for the God With Us to come. The power and intensity of the Holy Child, warm and swaddled against the flesh of his arms, made Simeon’s joy boundless! And the temple echoed his elation.

Simeon held against his chest the promised gift from God of God Himself, the arrival of The Light into the world. A gift to rouse a flame in every soul, a gift beyond personal possession.

Some gifts are meant to be shared, others warm us, and all deepen our gratitude. And then there are those rare gifts that are so perfect that our delight cannot be contained, and we shout and gasp elated as tears of joy stream down our cheeks.

Yeah, Simeon probably cried too.

Candlemas is the celebration of the coming of The Light into the world. In Poland, the candles brought from home to be blessed at church are decorated with symbols and ribbons (comparable to Hispanic Milagros crosses). In Poland, the custom is to let a blessed candle burn all night before an icon of Our Lady who, when the world still had forests, was relied upon to keep the wolves away during the cold nights of winter.

Now, our “wolves” tend to be of a different sort. But the pious burning of a blessed candle, with prayers offered to Our Lady, still might help keep these wolves at bay (fisheaters.com).

Read more of Margaret’s reflections on spirituality and nature at Morning Rose Prayer Gardens on Patheos.

Image credit: “Simeon’s Moment” By Ron DiCianni

Copyright 2013 Margaret Rose Realy

Root and Shoots

The other day I read an article about the characteristics of plants with taproots. A taproot is a central underground “stem” that grows deep into the soil and stabilizes a plant better than a shallow, wide-spreading fibrous root system. Rooting, a word often associated with faith, is familiar to us through the parable of the seeds. Thinking about the kinds of roots plants send out brought home the essence of stability.

The mighty oak has a taproot and is known not only for its strong branches and hard wood, but also because of its ability to withstand violent storms. We’ve seen trees toppled, their massive spreading roots ripped out of the earth when the soil is wet and wind strong. Rarely is an oak uprooted. Its tap and lateral roots are formed several feet below ground and create a stable footing.

Plants with taproot are also better able to withstand drought. When other plants are damaged or even destroyed by desert-like conditions, these plants survive and often thrive. Think of the wild poppy or rudbeckia. During times of drought their roots grow deeper in the recesses of the soil, seeking and obtaining life giving water.

Winters too have little effect on plants with taproots, the depth of the root not only secures but protects. Damage is extensive when soil freezes hard enough to forcibly push, or heave a plant out of the ground, often breaking apart shallow roots.

Trying to eradicate a plant with a taproot can be frustrating. Most of us have done battle with the dandelion and learned that chopping off the top or only partially removing the taproot seems to encourage it to grow more determinedly. The dandelion comes back, but now there are two or three plants from the damaged crown, producing even more flowers with ridiculously fruitful seeds.

There are benefits from taproot plants—a charitable act if you will. As these roots grow deeper they grow wider and break up hardened soil. Before long the nearly impenetrable soil is loosened enough for other plants to take hold and grow.

A plant with a taproot is secure, able to withstand storms, the challenges of a prolonged drought or harshness of winter. Attempts to eradicate it often produce more of the same plant in order to continue the lineage. A lineage that breaks apart hardened ground so that others may live and grow.

The taproot of our faith is sunk deep into the soil of our Creator. From the root of Jesse, the shoot of David sprouted giving rise to the fruitfulness of Christ. It is a stable root able to withstand storms and drought. And no matter how severe the attack, we keep coming back, growing on so that others may live.

_____________________

If you would like to read a little about my family tree, see my column Silver Tree of Christmases Past on Patheos.

Please add this link: http://www.patheos.com/blogs/prayergardens/2012/12/silver-tree-of-christmases-past/

Copyright 2013 Margaret Rose Realy

Adam, Eve and the Christmas Tree

Last month I wrote of Adam and the animals. But did you know that the Feast Day of Adam is December 24^th? And on that day the tradition of decorating a Christmas tree began?

While researching for a book, I was delighted to learn of the origins of this tradition and its relationship to Adam and Eve. The excerpt from that manuscript appeared on my blog, and I would like to share it here with Catholic Mom readers.

Adam the Patriarch, Memorial December 24^th, Patron of Gardeners

Adam lived in Eden, was married to Eve, and had one son that was a bad apple. Adam’s first son, Cain, was also a gardener, a ploughman who tilled the earth. While tilling the earth, Cain also was tilling greed toward his brother Abel. Adam was the second gardener on this earth; God of course being the first.

The name of Adam is said to be connected with the Hebrew word ha-adamah (“the ground”) in a similar manner that in Latin homo is related to humus.  Both refer to him as being of the earth.[1] Adam was created not only of the earth but initially to attend to it in joy and recreation. The necessity of labor became apparent only after he and Eve had made a very serious mistake when it came to the Tree of Paradise.

This tree has its own familiar presence in our lives. In the tradition of the Eastern Church the feast day of Adam and Eve, whom they consider saints, is December 24^th.  It was on this date that a Paradise Tree was decorated with red apples or quince that represented the forbidden fruit. At some point during the 16^th century communion wafers were added to represent the Eucharist, the Fruit of Life. Shortly thereafter the Roman Church discontinued the Feast of Adam and Eve and eliminated the practice of the Paradise Tree, which then had been renamed the Christbaum or Christ Tree in Germany, which we now call a Christmas tree.

The tradition of a Christ Tree would not fade away from Catholic families, though some concessions were made to meet the directives of the pope. With the removal of communion wafers, the Germans created angels, hearts and stars from white pastry dough, in observance of those things from Heaven. With brown dough they formed humans and animals, those things of earth.

Eventually fruits and vegetables honoring the Creator’s creations were made from marzipan and added to the tree. For this reason in the 17^th century the Christ tree was nick named the sugar tree, and it is no wonder that children waited in eager anticipation for disassembling it on January 6^th…the Epiphany which marks the end of the Christmas season.

I love how Meredith Gould sums up this Christmas tradition “On this Feast Day of Adam […] we remember how the Creator is reunited with the Created through the Redeemer, Christ Jesus.”[2]

And with that, I would like to send all of you the gift of God’s choicest blessings for Christmas. May peace be always in our thoughts, on our lips, and in our hearts.

Every Friday I post a column at The Catholic Channel on Patheos. Additional Christmas columns can be found on my page Morning Rose Prayer Gardens. The first appeared on Friday, November 30^th and is on the herb, rosemary, and its importance at the birth of Jesus. On Friday, December 7^th, I  will share the symbolism behind Christmas greens.

Molas Collection, Embroidery by Sandra and Bob Bowden

So much squealing and dashing about! The kids, full of energy and all under school age, are at Ella Sharp Park with their mothers. By the looks of it, it’s an autumn play date. The three women in sweat shirts and vests have tote-bags sitting on a picnic table and two strollers nearby. One mother sits at the table, on her lap is a baby wrapped in a pink and coral crocheted blanket. The other two women are talking as they herded the gaggle of kids. The children and toddlers, and there are seven, are dressed in sweaters and light jackets, two of the littlest girls outfits matched and have adorable knit hats.

The park has a large pond with cattails along one end, several birds and squirrels dart about its edge. Most of the leaves have fallen from the trees, to the delight of the children who grab a few in their tiny hands running to toss them at each other. The sun is bright and sends it’s warmth between puffy clouds. It is a perfect fall day to be out and about.

We learn early in childhood the fun it is to gather together and laugh and play. As we grow-up we continue to know the comfort in sharing time with others. We also learn early in the Bible, in Genesis, that God did not intend for us to be alone. I’m not speaking about a call to be married, not all of us will have or desire this.  The focus here is on being with another person, to share with them the familial love that God has planted in us.

I like how God, using Adam and the animals, teaches us about caring and empathy until we come to understand love. Many parents still use these same techniques: play dates and pets.

God’s first play date takes place on the day after the Day of Rest, when all creation had been…well…created. God had sent the rains and all the plants grew and flowered and Adam, I assume, was attending to Eden with a quiet peace. God knew that humans would need to be more than just content, so he set about to create some fun for Adam.

Imagine Adam, a close friend with God, being called to stop gardening in Eden and to come and join God for a parade, of sorts. What delight Adam must have experienced as each animal was brought for him to name. He would have walked around each one, petted it, maybe leaned against it, and tried to figure out how it moved. I can image each of the animals strutting about and playfully responding; a rhino nudging Adam with its muzzle, a koala lowering into Adam’s arms and hugging itself against his chest, or Adam waist deep in water as a manatee pressed against his legs. I can almost hear Adam hoot and laugh with each surprise God plopped down in front of him. God must have been having a lot of fun too.

But by the end of it all, and I’m certain many of us have felt this, Adam was probably left with an emptiness at not being able to share his joyful experience with someone else. And God knew this would happen and I think wanted Adam to grow a desire for companionship. It’s not enough for humans to have all our material needs and not have love.

So, along comes Eve. And I bet Adam hugged her close when he saw that she had hands and legs, voice and speech just like him. And now his happiness was complete. There was someone to run with and share with. Someone with whom to express all that is human in the heart.

I bet it was the best play date ever in the history of man.

Image Credit: Molas Collection, Embroidery by Sandra and Bob Bowden

Copyright 2012 Margaret Rose Realy

Prisms

The upstairs windows are washed, and the glass and crystal knick-knacks on the top of the sash and sill have been wiped off. Looking out, I notice the seventy-foot maple in the neighbor’s yard is tipped in dark red. Within a week, it will flash its fall color, a glowing dark-orange.

In front of the east window, hanging from the curtain rod just below the valance is a nylon string with clear multi-faceted prisms and hand-made beads. Dozens of vibrant rainbows are drifting across the butter-yellow walls in the gabled room. The prisms are bending the crisp autumn sunlight into these splashes of color, and my office feels bright, cheery and warmed.

I have been working on a manuscript for a new book and find myself reflecting on the Fruits of the Spirit, and there are twelve: charity, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, generosity, gentleness, faithfulness, modesty, self-control, and chastity (CCC1832).

I see the Fruits of the Spirit in much the same way as the colors resulting from the prism in my window. When sunlight enters into the prism and bends as it exits, a rainbow is seen. In this rainbow, I see an analogy: we are the prism in which God bends himself, His Holy Spirit, through us.

We have read in the Bible, in both Romans 12:6-8 and 1 Corinthians 12:4-12, how each of us has unique gifts but are all of one body. Depending on how we are gifted by His design, and shaped by our rearing, we will change or bend the light of God’s Holy Spirit, dispersing His Light into spiritual colors through faith, hope, and charity, the virtues that are infused into our souls.

We are mentally and spiritually altered when we realize the Light of God is within us. With this awareness, we interact in a new way to the people around us. Those who see this light, or spiritual fruitfulness in us, may also be changed. They may open their hearts to His Light, and, once open, they too become a prism revealing the warmth and brightness of faith.

I think God wants us to be spiritually radiant, to bring His Light into a world grown dim. In order to be, as Gandhi said, the change we wish to see in the world, we first need to accept how we are changed to reveal the spectrum of this holy light.

I delight when I see colors and how they play about in my world, and I find joy in the colors of God’s Light. You, dear reader, are part of that glow.

Copyright 2012 Margaret Rose Realy

A Range of Diversity

I’ve been pulling weeds and took note of their diversity, growth pattern and required habitat to flourish. Some were shallow rooted, prolific and easily removed. Others like the dandelion and common mallow, though fewer, had deep tap roots requiring I take more time to extricate.

Then there were the pretty little weeds with little blue flowers that crept along the ground almost like a lace doily. I noticed the Purple Deadnettle overtakes areas that are rich and fertile. For some species it didn’t seem to matter where they grew, being nonselective of light or shade.

I pulled out the weed identification book and found over 400 listed for my region and never realized how many of them are familiar.

I started to think about all the parables that told of how we need to weed out sins in our lives, to uproot what was opposed to beauty. None of those parables seemed to fit the spirituality of my gardening this day. It was more about the diversity.

I thought about the pretty little sins that creep into our lives and seem so innocuous, about how some of our poorer choices run deep and take a great deal of effort to overcome. There are those mistakes that we make over and over and over again that are like Quack Grass with its creeping rhizomatous root system nearly impossible to eradicate, popping up everywhere, laying hidden just underneath the surface. If we deny the pervasiveness of this weed and pull at it like a young seedling it will snap off and to grow again. If it remains unattended to, it spreads exponentially, becoming imbedded throughout the garden.

The Catechism tells us that, like my weeds, sins are diverse, spreading, and can become imbedded in the soil of our souls. We read in CCC: 1853 “Sins can be distinguished according to their objects, as can every human act; or according to the virtues they oppose, by excess or defect; or according to the commandments they violate. They can also be classed according to whether they concern God, neighbor, or oneself; they can be divided into spiritual and carnal sins, or again as sins in thought, word, deed, or omission. The root of sin is in the heart of man, in his free will… But in the heart also resides charity, the source of the good and pure works, which sin wounds.”

We can see by this reading that there are many ways to hide the beauty of who we are. The root of sin, the roots of weeds; both left unattended hide the splendor of our gardens.

When we look to the garden that is our soul, we become aware of the habitat in which sins can grow and our need to be mindful of the tangled mess that can result if offenses are left unattended. No matter how careful I am at weeding my garden, it is an ongoing challenge to keep things in check. Being attentive does not mean weeds will not come, it only means we can dispatch them more quickly. So true of our souls as well.

Copyright 2012 Margaret Rose Realy 

Matteuccia Struthiopteris

Under the apple tree and along the weathered stockade fence grows an established stand of tall Ostrich Plume ferns, Matteuccia struthiopteris. It is sometimes called shuttlecock fern because their growth pattern looks very much like a badminton birdie set on its nose. The dramatic single stemmed fronds rise four feet high out of a central crown and in moist shaded regions of Canada are known to grow up to six feet tall. They spread rapidly by rhizomes, a root system that creeps horizontally just below the leaf mulch that sends up new plants. The roots of this fern are sensitive to soil temperature and stop spreading where soil is too warm. In my garden the line of delineation of this invasive fern is remarkable; it has never encroached into full sun.

On the other hand, there are plants that need high soil temperature to begin growth, like the wild Butterfly Weed, Asclepias tuberosa. Grown in full sun it rarely shows shoots until mid summer, liking the soil hot and dry. During August in Michigan it flashes showy orange flowering clusters along roadsides. Butterflies, especially the Monarch, and hummingbirds depend on this late season food source.

The temperature of soil affects root development for different plants depending on their unique characteristics. What about our spiritual temperature and its effect on our soul?

I have at times worried about my spiritual temperature. How do I compare to those white-hot writers who can proclaim God and correlate texts with authority? Where do I fall on the continuum so clearly laid out in the Bible where being lukewarm is vile, and being fervent and boiling over with the Spirit is desired? At what temperature does my soul grow best?

Consider the gifts of the Spirit and how we are all uniquely endowed. Let’s start by thinking about boiling points. Different elements boil at different temperatures. Some of us are more fervent, having a low boiling point that allows for an easy bubbling up with controlled intensity. Others, like me, simmer on low and on occasion are moved by the Spirit to rise up, needing to be careful not to boil over at the sudden flame. Not everyone can be, or was designed to be a crucible of intense fire when the Holy Spirit burns in the soul.

If I am not fervent, am I lukewarm? Are there areas of my life where I am content with just being tepid, especially when it comes to living for Jesus? Tepid is defined as being neither hot nor cold, characterized by a lack of force or enthusiasm, someone who is apathetic. It is a static state, a place where there is neither growth nor decline. My friend loves roses and decided to grow a few on her lovely wooded hillside property. She adamantly defended that the sparse, infrequently flowering bushes were just fine in the dappled-shade garden in which they were planted. They survived but did not thrive; they were not dead but did not live in a way that would reveal their full beauty. My friend was content with their static state—it was good enough.

When it comes to the tepidity or fervency of a soul, I try to consider the unique characteristics of the individual as equipped by God. Some of us grow more prolifically and bring beauty in less intense environments. Others express beauty in the heat and are able to nourish the faithful when it seems too desperate for the rest of us.

Not everyone can be white-hot in expressing their love for God, but we can all keep the burner on.

Copyright 2012 Margaret Rose Realy

Doubt in the Family

On the cover of the July issue of Magnificatis a painting of Anna and Joachim, Mary’s parents. In looking at this image it occurred to me that there may have been a lot of doubts in this nuclear family.

The elderly Anna and Joachim were childless. Legend tells us that on one particular day the sadness of this situation overwhelmed Joachim. He left the temple and set off to the mountains to be alone with God. He wandered and lamented, doubting he would ever know the joy of playing with a child that he and Anna had conceived.

Anna heard about her husband’s tears. As his wife she would have spoken of her barrenness with him, and her doubt that in their advanced years they would ever have a son or daughter. Anna too went off by herself to pray. Would God answer her plea this time? Would he bring her beloved Joachim down from the mountains and into her empty arms? She doubted that her husband could endure the shame of childlessness much longer.

I can imagine their despair and hope colliding as they prayed. Hopelessness and trust were equally present in their hearts; reality nurturing one and faith the other.

That day God sent an angel to each of them. Anna was told she would conceive and the fruit of her womb would bless the world. A similar promise was made to Joachim. Did an angel really say they would have a child? They each had to see the other to share what they had been told. Falling into each other’s arms they knew by the joy in the other’s face that a miracle would take place and a child like no other would be born.

Anna bore a daughter and named her Mary. She and Joachim reared their beautiful child with awe and wonder at her grace and ability to grasp the roots of their Jewish faith.

Then one day their daughter, now a young woman, stood before them flushed with apprehension. How could they believe her fanciful story—that she was pregnant, but not by Joseph, her betrothed, not by a man; that she was impregnated by God?

This was their daughter and they knew her heart. God had whispered into this child a purity of soul. Very soon Anna and Joachim understood the magnitude of Mary’s claim.

Soon Joseph learned his young bride was pregnant. What would he have thought? How could he focus on his work? Imagine that poor man wandering the countryside looking for building materials and stopping to sit under a shade tree weeping about the sexual betrayal of his beloved. If there had been violence against her he would have known. To sleep with another man was so far beyond what this young woman would do. It was an action wholly incongruent with Mary’s nature, and yet there was proof. She was with child and it wasn’t his.

Anna and Joachim knew that Joseph needed to believe in a truth that they could not explain. He would have to come to know on his own terms with God a truth that never existed before. There was nothing they could say to remove the apprehension in Joseph. But they could give him time to nurture the seed of faith.

During this time Joseph wrestled with his doubts and prayed with an aching and weary heart. In his despair God came to him. God enlightened him of a truth so preposterous and outrageous that only God could have created it. So, too, did Joseph come to understand the magnitude of Mary’s claim. Joachim and Anna rejoiced knowing Joseph believed what they had known for months.

All of Mary and Joseph’s relatives heard of the child Jesus. How many of them counted the months from marriage to birth? Did they have faith enough to believe that the angels had repeatedly come to Mary and Joseph—of the immense star—of the premonition to flee to Egypt—and stories of Jesus as a young man and his miracles?

Not all of the family accepted what they heard. A seed of growing disbelief prevailed among the relatives. They knew Joseph, the carpenter, and Mary had grown-up like any of the other girls. The seeds of doubt grew so much that Jesus was blocked from sharing his gift of healing with them.

It is hard to imagine a woman bearing a normal healthy child when she is in her 70’s as Anna might have been. It is hard to imagine talking with angels and not suspect mental illness, and yet many times across three generations, the angels did speak.

If there is anything we can learn from this bit of history is that doubt is a part of human nature. We must and will wrestle with it because a seed of doubt is the same size as a seed of faith, the greater growth is in which we nurture. God entrusted us to nurture faith.

Copyright 2012 Margaret Rose Realy

A good soil must be loose enough to allow roots to move in and through it. When soil is hard and compacted, the roots are constricted and do not grow properly, often curling back upon themselves in an endless circling. When this happens the roots are said to become girdled; the soil is squeezed out as the root wraps around itself, eventually eliminating its own means of support.

When a soil is too soft or porous, the root will quickly spread out wildly, making multiple thin roots, trying to stabilize itself in a shifting environment. The lack of deep roots often means there is a lack of proper nutrition with which to grow; the plant is not being properly fed and in addition will lose its footing.

There is also a need for a community of organisms, which I have termed earthworks, that includes worms, bugs, fungi and other microorganisms. This synergetic society of earthworks is necessary to break down plant waste and garden debris. It is this relational working together that keeps the soil useable and avoids stagnation.

A healthy supportive root system develops slowly and steadily, often in set stages of growth and rest. One stage of rapid growth is at initial planting when the existing root system has been disturbed and exposed to a richer environment. The soil is easily incorporated into the new life of the plant as the roots reach into it seeking food. During those times of rest, when visible activity diminishes, the steady development of roots continues in a less demanding and more stabilizing way.

The relationship of our roots in the soil of the Holy is much the same. We need a steady flow of that which feeds us and gives us life. We need a balanced soil to secure our roots, a soil matched to our individual needs—for a bog plant cannot grow in a prairie. We need a community around us to help breakdown the debris of life and turn it into something useable.

We have all seen it happen. A beautiful plant exposed to the radiance of the sun, withers. It lacked the roots to draw itself upright.

It doesn’t matter how much The Light shines on you, how often you are exposed to the miracle of God. If you do not have good roots, you will have only an appearance of the fullness of life.

Copyright 2012 Margaret Rose Realy

Today, this definition has broadened to include any garden dedicated to Mary. It can include a painted image or statue of Mary or even a small shrine to our Holy Mother. It is different from a rosary garden which is structured to reflect the order of pater and mater beads.

If you decide to follow the tradition of “a garden enclosed” a simple wattle fence of woven twigs will look very sweet in a naturalistic setting, as would a low fieldstone wall. A small white picket fence is brighter and would look a bit neater in a suburban yard. In formal gardens an open weave of brickworks could form the walls. Living plants can also provide the enclosure.  A line of ornamental grasses of all the same cultivar could provide a structure. For a larger Marian garden an evergreen shrub would form a rich and elegant hedge wall.

Flower mediations for Marian gardens are numerous, culturally-based and overlapping in symbolism. There are several books and web sites dedicated to plants that symbolically represent some aspect of our Holy Mother. Your Marian garden can also be an herb garden or a container garden.

If you are creating a Marian rose garden, there are four colors of roses that are used that match the traditional colors of the mysteries of the rosary. Red roses are used to meditate on her sorrows; white roses for her joys; the yellow roses are for her glories; and roses that are dark burgundy or deep magenta are the purples of the Luminous Mysteries.

Your Marian garden, besides being a retreat space for prayer, can also be used for special days of devotion to Mary. Some of these special days are May Crowning, the Immaculate Conception, Mary’s birthday or dates of her apparitions. The purpose of your garden, however you choose to design it, is to lead you and your family into a deeper appreciation of our Holy Mother.

Copyright 2012 Margaret Rose Realy

Editor’s Note: Today, I am overjoyed to welcome Margaret Rose Realy as our newest contributor here at CatholicMom.com. As a poor but enthusiastic gardener, I have fallen in love with her wonderful book A Garden of Visible Prayer: Creating a Personal Sacred Space One Step at a Time and make her blog Morning Rose Prayer Gardens a regular destination. Welcome to the CatholicMom family Margaret! LMH

If I were to meet you for the first time and we were near a garden or woodland’s path, I would ask you to walk with me as we got to know each other. There is something about being surrounded by greenery and the scent of life that puts people at ease. Since you cannot answer my questions about who you are, I will tell you a little bit about myself.

I am a gardener who has found a creative connection to God. I have always loved the earth and what grew from it. Not until I was older did I come to understand how near God is in a garden.

It was in the gloaming of the day, just before sunset, that God would come to the Garden of Eden and visit with Adam and Eve. It is at that time, and at dawn, that I too feel closest to God.

Those hours are transition times. With the setting sun comes the time to transition from the din of daily life and move into the slower pace of nightfall. With dawn comes the time to be lifted from sleep and carried prayerfully into the day. I am one slow to wake and many mornings have been found wandering slowly through the gardens, a rosary swinging softly from my hand and slippers wet with dew.

Gardens for me are a private endeavor with public results. It is in my solitude that I try to cooperate with God’s will and create spaces for outdoor prayer. While I work I often pray that the visitors who come will find a moment of quietness, opening themselves up just enough for the Holy Sprit to enter.

Now that I am a bit older, and slower to rise from weeding, my gardens have become smaller. And I have found the gift of words. I am not a trained catechist so my words about faith are simple, often found while I sit in the Adoration Chapel. It is through these words written by a gardener that I hope to share with you the experience of outdoor prayer, of finding a way to draw closer to God in your garden.

Maybe you can share with me who you are and what you would like to know about creating gardens of visible prayer.

At times I will share with you excerpts from my current book A Garden of Visible Prayer or from my upcoming spiritual gardening books. Below is a condensed sample for April:

During the Easter season why not make some crosses and plant them in your garden, along a path, or arrange them in a container or window box with some greenery. Gather together outdoor paint, colorful string or narrow ribbons, caulk or glue, and assorted weatherproof materials like wood, shells or plastic shapes. Fasten together various sizes of cross members and decorate. Attach your cross to a slender stick for pushing into the ground.

Such a simple thing—to make a cross—yet it conveys a message so great that our world was forever changed.

Copyright 2012 Margaret Rose Realy