Homecoming

We were gone for four days over the past weekend.
Even though I was reluctant to leave the friends and fun behind, I was happy to be home.

And mushrooms were popping.

The first thing I did, after unloading the car but before putting anything away, was take a walk through the gardens. At 8:30 p.m. the light was gray, but there was plenty of it.

I wandered, noting how much larger everything was -- things grow quickly at this time of year. A dozen asparagus spears begged to be picked. I noted that I'd be able to pick snap peas (FINALLY) the next day. A few strawberries were just a day or two from ripe. And, of course, the weeds were doing well, too.

The following morning, as I stepped out my front door, I paused, looking across a riot of poppies -- red, orange, pink and red with a white border -- out to the bean trellises with young pole beans crowded at the bottom, through to the garlic and beyond to the woods.

Everything green (and other colors) and beautiful.

My heart filled with joy and love.

I was home.

In more ways than one.

How much is my garden a reflection of my hard work, and how much is it a reflection of my soul?