Follow Your Path, No Matter Where it Leads

My evening was redirected to our community garden at .

My son calls it Mike Hoffman park because Mike Hoffman is a friend of ours, and he thought we were saying Mike Hoffman Park when referencing Kauffman Park in our plans to go there to play on the playground or garden at the .

This is especially funny because our friend, Mike Hoffman, loves a good play on words. It is also interesting because Gabriel is unknowingly reinforcing the inner connection created through living together in a community. A neighborhood. It is Mike Hoffman's park. As it is mine and yours.

I was planning on going back to work after taking my son home this evening, the first sunny day after a very long, pearly string of cold and rainy days.

My daughter dramatically persuaded me into going to the weekly 'Thursday Garden Together' nights at Mike Hoffman Park. Bobby would be taking the kids up there to socialize, eat dinner and pull some weeds.

It wasn't very hard for Hazel to convince me, actually, as I was feeling very unfocused and stressed out. Spending the last hour of gorgeous spring sunshine with my family in our neighborhood park on this day would be just what I needed to ground myself for the work I had ahead.

So, I am redirected to the community gardens with my family. We head out. Some on foot, some on bikes. Down the street, across the tracks, through the service entrance to the gardens.

There are three other groups of gardeners. Mike Hoffman, himself, was in one of the groups. We wander over to our plots (one for our family, one for the Root) and we find that the asparagus spears are taller than Hazel.

It is only the third year this perennial has grown here, so it is good to leave them unharvested for a better crop next year. At least, that's what Bobby tells me.

The chives' buds are growing and getting ready to flower. The spinach is a small bed of tiny green leaves. The blackberry bush is full in its purplish green luster.

Our garden neighbors had huge oregano plants they were sharing: score!

Our kids see a friend of theirs, and as they start to socialize and play, I get into the weeds right away. I spent the first few minutes determining which plants were weeds, those undesirable native or non-native plants that grow and reproduce aggressively, and which plants I desire to grow in our garden.

I fear and relish the power given by this decision making. Pulling 'weeds' will benefit the vegetables and plants we intend to grow and will 'clean up' the look of the garden, but I also acknowledge that it disrupts the ecosystem created by the hand of nature. Every time I weed, I think about this, even in my flower beds at home. 'Sorry plant, you just don't fit in' as its tossed aside.

The results of my pondering? Tall grass is out because it crowds the soil and starts to look unkempt. Dandelions are out for the same reason, even though every part of the plant is edible and full of nutrients. Some mint stays. Some mint goes. (We use the mint to flavor lemonade at the Root, so I guess this is harvesting rather than weeding.) The little ferns, though volunteers, will flower, so we keep them for aesthetic reasons.

As I am loosening soil and pulling the weeds out as deep as I can get, I uproot evidence of the ecosystem that is created in good garden soil. Earth worms, moisture, organic matter. Enzymes and nutrients in the soil break down when the soil is disturbed, so I dig carefully. The repetitive motions, bare hands digging in the earth (my favorite part), dig-dig-pull, breath. This is my yoga practice tonight.

I hear a train coming and am excited because just that evening, Gabriel was wondering when a train will come.

We were crossing the tracks to go home as he noticed that there wasn't a train coming. He never seems to see one coming, so they obviously never come through Lakewood this time of year. 'Maybe in the summertime', he thought out loud.

But, here it is, just an hour later, and a train is on its way through Lakewood. As I share this moment with Gabriel, I wonder if he realizes that the trains actually come through every day despite whether or not he is aware of them. But, I don't ask him. He'll figure it out.

The tracks are adjacent to Mike Hoffman park, so we have a close, unobstructed view of the cars as they start to barrel through our neighborhood. I decide to count them with Gabriel. He loses interest after about 12.

I begin to become more interested as I watch the art that flies by. All masterpieces. Car after car, every graffiti piece is so ill. There aren't any hasty tags. No unfinished pieces. Blurs of color become unique, stylized symbols of urban youth as I focus my eyes on each one, trying not to miss any.

Then, something I had never seen in person, a full car piece, letters from bottom to top, filling the whole car. It was just stunning. I wonder about the execution of something so grand. It was a perfect display of urban art. I realize then that I am very lucky to have followed the path to this moment. I was redirected to these experiences and am as rich as the earth to have found them.

My consciousness was suspended in sunshine and soil, laughing and screaming children, the power of art and industry, the perfect evening. Be here now.