Church in the Greenhouse

Good morning, sangha. "I hope everyone here is in love" (Thich Nhat Hanh). There are two primary uses for the word cultivating : 1) to prepare ground for crops or gardening 2) to try to acquire or develop a quality, sentiment or skill (in the self or others) We might try to cultivate, for example, love, compassion, altruism, liberation, gratitude, and/or empathy in our personal gardens... along with strawberries. (thank you, dictionary) The Power of Empathy  (Emma Collins) So... I'm out here in the greenhouse at 6 a.m. doing both. I'm listening to/occasionally watching a dharma talk by the Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh called "Cultivating True Love," which he began by inviting his father to join. Thay, as he is affectionately called by his sangha, is 93 years old, so his father is long dead... the idea is that our ancestors are still part of our lives. When we want to see them, he says, we need only look into the palms of our hands. We can not

Why, yes, there is. I made it, folks. I'm Dr. Miles as of this morning! Thank you for believing in me. EdD in Higher Education Leadership. I'm out in the greenhouse at 5:30 a.m. to tell the congregation, but the cabbage plants are too sleepy to care, and the lilies have their own ambitions --- they will bloom any day now. Any day now. We have to keep believing, no matter how sad it gets in the world, and the poor souls in Italy are burying the dead every day. I read that a priest gave up his ventilator to someone younger, a stranger... and as a result, he died: "Don Giuseppe Berardelli, 72, was the archpriest of Casnigo, a town in northern Italy about 50 miles northeast of Milan." He Was a Priest Who Listened to Everyone I'm listening to the magical voice of Alan Johnson at The Poet's Narrative , who is doing a live video on Facebook sharing the medical news from where he is, and mentioning how his garden soothes him. The garden has its own narrati

Hi, friend. What was it you wanted to say? I've been listening and hoping to hear you. I'm up early on a Sunday morning. I've been out to the greenhouse and sat in the mostly dark for about thirty minutes, with only a little light from the fountain to guide me. The wind blew and gently shook the greenhouse walls, and occasionally the dogs barked. I have been listening to old time gospel music because I'm in the mood for it: Sunday Morning Medley Playing now: Highway to Heaven... an alternative to the well known Highway to Hell. Next tune up: "When the War is Over," which features the title line, "When the war is over, we're gonna have a time." Aren't we? We're at war with a virus, folks are saying, but when it's over, there will be joy. If you want a joyful experience, try listening to the Georgia Mass Choir: Joy So beautiful it gives me chills -- my friend Robin says that means my spirit is bearing witness. And in fact,

I've come out to the greenhouse at 10:30 a.m. to admire the pole bean plants and how they endlessly seek an entwining, an interweaving. Three plants have crossed their borders and meandered over to the pots of others. No one seems to be complaining or protesting the breach. I see also the work I need to do, and begin to lift the piles of leaves I've plucked and carelessly tossed on the floor. I've pulled these leaves because they have been scavenged by hungry creatures -- pests, I might call them, if I am without compassion for those who don't know my rules. They've left ugly holes -- displeased, I snip and toss. I don't stay with that feeling long because look at the beauty that remains. I move the pots around, directing them as if they were a choir, and I see how much stronger they are when they are gathered. What's this? The parsley's coming up. It's the first thing that has worked in the special herb planter except for milk thistle, and I

Two nights ago, while I was sleeping, a heavy rainfall crushed the greenhouse roof, which was not much after all but PVC pipes and plastic. We had a couple of pipes we put in for reinforcement (propped up) when it rained, but we didn't know it was raining, and isn't that just how it goes? The rain comes, the roof falls, while you're sleeping. No fear, congregation. As I was taught, the church isn't the building. It's the creatures who inhabit it, in a spirit of community and grace and all good things. Only a few of the plants were bruised and disorganized, but well glory... everything is alright. Look here, new green shoots, new underfeathering, leaves widening and spreading. We are alive. One of my favorite poems is really a hymn because what is a hymn but an act of praise, a song, a poem? Here's the whole thing (go on... you'll be glad you did):  "Sestina" But oh... this line: Time to plant tears , says the almanac. Yes, time to plant

Hello, everyone. (Greens from my garden --- a bounty) I'm writing in a time of quarantine for the coronavirus, COVID-19. I have never had an experience like this one, but other folks did, of course --- many years ago, the world was plagued by such plagues as this, and did not fare as well as we have so far. I may write about medieval plagues and the church at some point, but today I'm opening my own church door for any believers or seekers or unbelievers who want to see what it's all about. My home church is a little greenhouse attached to my house, and so far, I'm the only full human member. I have guests, though, occasionally, and they include both people and other creatures. For example, Fernando and Poncho, two toads who have made my acquaintance. Fine fellows. Also, I have many slugs who are eating their share of my greens. I haven't given them names, but this is a matter of prejudice that i need to address. Add to that the itinerant mosquito and other