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Planted in Adversity, Harvested in Hope

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Anza-Borrego Desert
Image by Waqas Ahmed via Flickr

Written by Karen D. Swim

“What makes the desert beautiful is that somewhere it hides a well.” – Antoine de Saint-Exupery

The imagery of the desert is often used to symbolize adversity or those seasons in our life when we are  challenged from every angle. The dry, scrabbly land and unforgiving climate aptly describe how we feel when we toil for answers and receive no harvest in return.

In the desert, relationships change. Just like the sun, welcoming in fair weather but  becoming a fiery enemy in the desert region, searing your defenses with its white hot rays. You are forced to slow your pace, to measure your steps and adapt to the land like the prickly cacti that conserve their own water to survive.

“Adversity is like a strong wind. It tears away from us all but the things that cannot be torn, so that we see ourselves as we really are.” –Arthur Golden

Yet, both adversity and the desert, difficult and unkind on the surface can bring forth a beauty unequaled in “milder” climates. In the desert you tap into your source of inner strength as you still the confusion and tune into the silence that surrounds you. Like the cacti, you draw from your inner well to nourish and sustain you. You no longer drink arrogantly allowing the liquid of life to spill to the ground and evaporate but savour each precious as it revives and restores you.

In the inky night sky of the desert the stars are at their most brilliant. And in the darkness of challenge,  it is our faith that lights up the sky shining brighter than ever before.

I have never willingly planned a vacation in the land of adversity but I will admit to learning my greatest lessons while there. I have been scorched by the desert sun and momentarily been fooled by the mirage of false hope. I believed that I would perish in the wilderness and the vultures would feast upon my carcass. It was in the darkness of those moments that water poured from the rocky land nourishing me and giving me hope that I would find my way home.

When I finally made my way to the end of the desert path, I looked back to see the dry and rocky land covered in a field of sprawling wildflowers,strong, untamed and free.

It is said that adversity is the best teacher, do you agree?

This post is an entry in the What I Learned from Adversity group writing project. The writing project is open to everyone and if you’d like to contribute, the deadline is midnight April 12th.

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Sidewalk Surprises

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Written by Karen D. Swim

In the past several months I have been forced happy to walk everywhere I go. My most frequent errand is to the grocery store so I have spent a great deal of time traveling the same routes. Since there are only so many routes I’ve gotten to know the stretch of roads between me and food very well.

The great thing about walking is that you really get to know your community. You notice the smallest details when you’re not whizzing by in your car while talking on the phone (not that I talk and drive mind you). I have memorized the bumps in the road, the best places to cross without becoming road kill, even the way every neighbor positions their trash can on collection day. So, even when the ground is covered with snow, I know the places to adjust my footing and those to be avoided all together.

However, one day this winter, my route taught me a lesson I will not soon forget.

It was a typical winter day, cold, with a couple of feet of snow on the ground. Faced with eating olive oil and unsweetened banana chips, I piled on layers and headed for the grocery store.  I waddled out the door resembling the Michelin man with lipstick. I made it to the store in record time and whistled as I collected my groceries. At the checkout I packed my groceries in my backpack and a second canvas sack which I would carry in my hand.

I knew the most slippery parts of my sidewalk route and gingerly avoided them. I reached the part in my route where I would step up on a small grass embankment, climb up a tiny hill and down again to reach my house. I could actually see my house from this point. I began whistling again and marched on with a spring in my step. I had bought my favorite tea and was looking forward to a piping hot cup when I got home.

I slowed down and walked around the slippery part and with the hill within reach, my feet lifted high in the air and I found myself flat on my back (cushioned only slightly by the backpack bulging with groceries). My hat had flown off my head and in my shock the first thing I did was smooth my hair and worry frantically that I had hat hair in public with no mirror to check.

I rose slowly, and grabbed my hat and the few parcels that had escaped the bag.  Certain that nothing was broken I carried on, a bit slower and with a bit of dignity loss. I knew the route. I had traveled it many times. How on earth had I managed to fly in the air like a cartoon character?

I learned that day that even the well-traveled sidewalk holds a few surprises, much like life itself. We can grow comfortable in our trusted routes and routines and then get thrown (literally) for a loop when we stop paying attention. I also learned that eggs really can survive a fall.  I still walk that same sidewalk nearly every day, but now I give it the respect and attention it deserves, and I carry a mirror, just in case.

This post is a contribution to Robert Hruzek’s What I Learned From a Sidewalk Group Writing Project.  I hope you will consider taking part by sharing your own sidewalk reflections.

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What I Learned From Love

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Written by Karen D. Swim

I sat by his bed with the notebook by my side. The day was warm and clear and I gazed into the backyard as he slept. He had worked so hard on the yard and it was one of our favorite things about our lovely little home. A vegetable garden right outside our bedroom window provided us with beautiful tomatoes, peppers, corn, herbs and greens. An array of beautiful blooms surrounded the yard like the borders of a frame. The trees seemed to gently watch over us as they stretched toward the sky.

A few weeks ago he had cut down huge branches from the tress closest to the house.  He seemed like a man possessed. I hated watching trees being trimmed and my eyes brimmed with tears as I feared he was cutting too much.  I asked him what he was doing. Without missing a beat with the saw he told me he had to do it while he could so I would not have to worry. My husband was not romantic in the traditional sense but his practical gestures of love were like a sonnet written upon my heart.

His gentle breathing quickened and I shook from my reverie, returning to the present. I looked over, ready to spring into action when he looked toward the right of the room. His brows knitted together, he asked “who are all those people?” I followed his eyes and asked softly, “What people honey?” “All those people, dressed in white.” I swallowed the lump in my throat before responding, “those are the angels honey they are watching over you.” Pleased with my answer he continued to look at them in silence. I don’t know what he saw but I felt a mixture of peace and sadness. I could not bear to let this man go, so many things left undone, but I knew that if it were to be he would be gently carried away to a far better place.

The following week I calmly called 911 when he struggled to breathe. I opened the notebook and gave the paramedics a full history of all that happened that day, blood pressure, pulse, glucose, medications, and more. They eyed me in amazement but love had taught me to keep track. I drove behind the ambulance to the hospital, making phone calls along the way. Once again, I sat by his bed, comforting, praying and loving him. Soon he was being wheeled to ICU and our hands locked together, I leaned in and told him I wanted him to live but if he needed to let go, I would be okay.

The words so easily tumbled from my lips in spite of the pain in my heart because love had taught me to put it first. It was not my pain that mattered but his peace. That was to be our final night. No words were left unspoken as the angels gently carried him away.  Love taught me to embrace it fiercely, and cherish it deeply but to release it when the time came for it to soar to the heavens.

I learned from love how to let go.

This post is a contribution to the February What I Learned From groupwrite project. I struggled to hit publish on this one and Robert gently encouraged me and graciously offered to accept my late entry. Thank you Robert!

Wednesday Love List

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