Writing is often compared to gardening. In both endeavors, one starts with something very small—an idea or a seed—nurtures it, cares for it, weeds around it, and hopes that it will grow and flourish. As I began cleaning up my garden, today, I was reminded of a poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins, especially the second stanza:
The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs —
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.
As I started to clean up the garden today, I spotted things starting to grow.
Leave a Reply