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20 Minute Meditation 10
by HoliznaCC0
licensed under a CC0 1.0 Universal License
Spring's Garden of Growth
a Guided Meditation
Prologue
5 min.
I invite you to find a comfortable position where your body feels supported and at ease. Take your time. Once seated, enjoy a slow breath. Now, allow your eyes to softly close. Take a deep breath in... hold it gently... and release it completely. Once more, breathe deeply in... pause... and exhale fully. Let your breathing find its natural rhythm, unhurried and unforced.
We are going to take our time with this meditation. We are going to be unhurried, here. Soak in this Now. Settle your body in. Settle your breath in. Settle your mind in.
As you settle in, feel where your body connects with the surface beneath you. Maybe the cushion, or the floor. Perhaps the chair. For me, it is an ageworn wooden garden bench. Notice these points of contact grounding you to this moment, to this place. With each breath, you settle more deeply into presence.
Inhale slowly...
Exhale completely.
Inhale easily...
Exhale more slowly.
Inhale...
Exhale...
That's it. Nice.
Let's begin; I'll tell the story of my meditation...
Your eyes are closed.
Your breathing helps to anchor you here.
My story will fill your mind.
And perhaps soften and open your heart.
We will take our time and visualize.
We will feel it all.
Here we go...
The Heart-shaped Garden
19 min.
I am sitting on an old wooden bench at the edge of a garden in early Spring. The air holds a particular freshness - cool but with a hint of warmth. The rains and heat haven't yet arrived. Nevertheless, some early Spring green shoots and tiny purple and orange and red buds have appeared...if you know where to look. The morning light is clear and gentle, casting soft shadows across the Earth. Clouds drift lazily by and the quick breezes shifting last season's crinkly brown leaves keep conjuring thoughts of rabbits playing and snakes slithering.
Before me lies the garden plot, largely bare, perhaps waiting. It's shaped like a child's drawing of a heart. The soil is dark and rich, still partially dormant from Winter's rest. Maybe, if I'm honest, mostly dormant. I have given it one half-hearted raking and spread a touch of fertilizer just last week. Here and there, small signs of life emerge - a few persistent green shoots near the edges, the tiniest leaves unfurling from seemingly empty ground. Daffodils and forsythia silently make a strong argument for a Summer meant for yellow. Mostly though, it is open space. Unplanted. Undisturbed. Unhurried.
No corns stalks sway, today. No beans curl and climb the corn stalks that are not there...just yet. No squash grows rotund beneath the shade of beans and the impossibly tall corn stalks - their silks like proud banners - the corn stalks that are not yet here. The Three Sisters still slumber so sleepily.
The garden is bordered by more-or-less smooth stones of various sizes, creating a natural boundary. I smiles at the small openings between certain stones - gateways for comings and goings. These stones have witnessed many seasons, many plantings, many harvests. Some I dug up from near the bamboo garden. Brought them up into the rich light. Lichen clings to a few and moss enjoys the shaded valleys afforded by others. These stones remain, steadfast guardians of this space. Some have shifted from frost's upheavals though they each remain. Stony stalwarts where liverworts will soon reach.
As I sit in stillness, I become aware of the garden's other visitors. A robin lands lightly on the soil, tilting its head as if listening to secrets beneath the surface. It pecks once, twice, then flies to a nearby branch. A bleeding heart plant is showing near the catnip. The catnip's seems to have migrated this past Winter. A small cloud of some flying insects seems to have a keen interest in the shaded side of the lilac bush - itself seeming to enjoy its slowly appearing greenery. A chipmunk darts along the stone border, pausing occasionally to observe before continuing on its journey. A songbird descends from a neighboring tree, cautiously exploring - limb by lower limb - before retreating to higher ground. Somewhere, a woodpecker plays percussion for a band that isn't quite warmed up, or perhaps attentive - or maybe even in attendance.
The wildlife moves through this space with natural ease - neither disturbing nor being disturbed. It is all so gloriously and effortlessly and simply present. Each attending to its own rhythms, its own needs. Each visitor asks nothing of the garden except what is freely offered in this moment. Some visit, some linger, and some emerge.
A squirrel climbs the leaning maple behind the garden shed. I gasp and let a slight unplanned utterance out. Momma has an impossibly small fuzzy child in her mouth. Upward the climb! They reach their hollow way up high. They clamber into the dark. Momma peeks out to be sure all is well. Then turns inward to her brood.
I notice that nothing in this scene is striving. The soil doesn't rush its warming. The stones don't attempt to be anything other than stones. The early shoots emerge at exactly their own pace. The buds clench themselves only until ready to unfold. The animals neither hurry nor delay their natural movements. In tune with Nature, in sync with Nature...all things in Nature follow Nature by following their own inner nature.
My attention turns to the garden itself - this open canvas of possibility. No seeds have been planted yet. No rows have been marked. No decisions have been made about what will grow here in the coming season. Sure, I've discussed some ideas, peeked into the neighborhood nursery's windows, flipped through a seed catalog, and lazily daydreamed of hot peppers finding a home in the far corner where the afternoon sun is strong. I've only seen one rabbit here this season. But now...this morning...this now: the garden simply exists in a state of sacred potential. It is complete in its incompleteness.
The newly paired mourning doves coo. A phoebe chases spring gnats. A rat rustles near the compost pile. A butterfly flits past small purple flowers, showing their faces beside the frog pond. Something chitters. Something chatters. The Buddha statue remains quiet, still, serene. The windchimes continue contributing melodiously. I've counted four frogs this Spring - and named each for a poet. The winds are not yet strong enough to sound the large gong.
There is work to be done here, certainly. Soil to be turned. Weeds to be cleared. Mulch to be spread. Weeds to be cleared. Stones to be shifted. More weeds to be tussled with. Decisions to be made. Plans to be drawn. Seeds to be planted and tended. Weeds to be cleared. But...not now. Not in this moment. Now is the time of witnessing what is already here, what remains, and what returns on its own.
My Garden-shaped Heart
16 min.
As I continue to sit with this garden, I begin to understand that this space mirrors my own heart. This garden is my heartspace in early Spring, holding both the memory of previous seasons and the possibilities of what is yet to come. I am sitting - just sitting - in the garden of my own heartspace...early Spring's Garden of Growth.
Inhale easily...
Exhale more slowly.
Inhale...
Exhale...
That's it. Ahh.
Like this garden, my heart contains areas of bare soil - open, receptive, waiting. It holds persistent growth from seasons past - relationships, knowledge, wisdom that continues to emerge without effort. It has its stone boundaries - the necessary containers that define and protect my deepest self. The stone boundaries also offer intentional openings for authentic connection.
Perhaps my own heartspace has a smokebush seedling, a dwarf willow tree, and some Spring bulbs sitting on its porch awaiting rich soil. And water. And light. One day each assured to feel my soft overseeing smile as I sip tea at gardenside.
And like this garden, my heart welcomes various visitors - thoughts, emotions, memories that come and go, each with their own purpose, their own wisdom to offer...if I simply observe their natural movements without interference.
Inhale...
Exhale...
I recognize that my heart, too, exists in this season of preparation and potential. There is much I might cultivate here in the coming days. Much to clear away, much to nurture, much to newly plant. Perhaps some things to prune. But in this moment, I am simply a companion to possibility.
Inhale...
Exhale...
I am not doing. I am not planning. I am not even dreaming of what might be. I am simply witnessing what is - this perfect state of readiness before action. This sacred pause between seasons. I sip my tea. I breathe in the fragrancelessness of a new Spring.
Inhale...
Exhale...
I feel a profound peace in recognizing that this moment of apparent emptiness is actually complete in itself. The unplanted garden lacks nothing. My heartspace lacks nothing. In fact, it is fed by nothing just as it is fed by anything and everything. The garden, my heart - each exist exactly as they should in this phase of the greater cycle.
With each breath, I deepen my appreciation for this time of quiet potential. I honor the wisdom in witnessing, in simply being present to what is already here. Before moving or removing anything. Before adding anything new.
Inhale...
Exhale...
I silently offer these acknowledgments to my heart-garden:
* "I honor your natural rhythms of rest and growth."
* "I appreciate your readiness without rushing."
* "I witness your existing strength, your resilience through past seasons."
* "I value this time of being rather than of doing."
Inhale slowly...
Exhale slower...
I sit quietly, breathing with these intentions, letting them sink deeply into the soil of my awareness. The garden and I rest together in mutual recognition - each complete, each preparing, and each perfectly aligned with the season.
Inhaling...
Exhaling...
The sun has shifted slightly, warming the bench beneath me. A gentle breeze stirs the air, carrying the subtle scent of Earth and possibility. I take in this moment fully, imprinting it on my senses, knowing that soon enough, the season of active tending will arrive. I will be calloused, I will be fed, I will be sore, I will be alive to aliveness.
But for now, I am here. Simply...here. A sacred witness to sacred potential. A companion to possibility.
Inhale easily...
Exhale easily, fully, and slowly.
Inhale...
Exhale...
That's it. Yes. Mmmm.
As this meditation comes to a close, I gradually deepen my breathing. I move my jaw in silence. I shift my weight a bit. I gently wiggle my fingers and toes - reawakening to physical sensations. I roll my shoulders softly, inviting movement back into my body. I feel into my spine and these two palms. I sense my heartbeat. Now, a deep inhalation.
Exhaling, I slowly open my eyes, carrying with me the peaceful wisdom of the early Spring garden - my heartspace - with its perfect blend of what remains, what returns, and what is yet to be.
Thank you.
