The mower is in the shop for its spring tune up and the grass knows it.

Dressed in her finest 70’s shag carpet vibe, the slopes surrounding the house and the walking paths through the fields are an uneven and cheerfully rebellious carpet of quackgrass, dandelion (in puffball stage now), lamb’s-quarters, knotweed, wild violets and plantain, with flat patches of creeping Charlie and white clover sprinkled in to distract us from the botanical chaos beneath our feet. I was hoping we’d get another bumper crop of wild garlic mustard this year for making pesto but it’s literally thin on the ground. No matter—the plantain and purslane are edible and we’ve got plenty of nettles to keep us in soups and lasagnas well into the summer. We’ve even got green onions sprouting up in the compost pile. Barbara Kingsolver calls weeds “the gardener’s job security.” We also call them dinner when it’s safe to do so. And we know this: there’s no stopping spring.

It’s impossible not to notice the reassuring effect this land-home has on us when new life is bursting forth in every direction. Our place is landlocked and pretty much hidden from the ribbons of traffic that zoom by on the two-lane road a mile and a half west of our driveway. Were it not for our phones and internet (and the need to slide into that traffic a few days a week for work) and a shared curiosity about what the rest of the human tribe is up to, we’d live an ignorantly insulated life, unaware of the headlines that bring the rest of the world to its knees. But…we are aware, we do read and scroll and feel the sharp edges of a global momentum that seems bent on self-destruction. In the midst of all that, it begs the question—why are we still here, all of us? I can only speculate and wonder, with an undercurrent of fierce hope, the kind that makes you clench your face up tightly, press your clasped and intertwined fingers against your lips and send everything you are outward to an unseen force that must be, must be, watching, listening, standing alongside us.

What is holding us together? What divine epoxy adheres to the jagged brokenness of our life’s pieces and sticks them back together? In my 20’s, I traveled with three male friends to a monastery just outside of Atlanta and stayed overnight (disguised as a man since women were not permitted accommodations. Another story for another time). I wondered about their spartan lifestyle, heard their chants at regular intervals throughout the day. I didn’t see a television in the areas we visited, though I didn’t look for one. In the short slice of time that I observed and participated in the rhythm of their routines, I thought of a life so focused, so contained and driven inward, sunrise to sunset to sunrise again. How could there not be some ripple effect on others in spiraling concentric circles that reached beyond Georgia’s state lines into Florida and eventually into Cuba and Puerto Rico? How many more communities of full-time pray-ers are there in the world? And…how could all of that not be helping, in some way?

Then there are the other less formal and less communal acts of intention and compassion that weave and whisper themselves through our days: doors held open as we juggle sacks of groceries, artists who paint messages on flat stones and leave them on beaches for searchers and fellow travelers to find at just the opportune moment, farmers’ market vendors who give away whatever product is left at the end of the day to local food pantries or a customer who’s short on cash, simple eye contact with someone next to us at the bus stop, held for longer than a flash, a reminder that we’re in this together. Whenever we dig into our recycling to find a piece of something that will keep us from having to run into Lowe’s and buy brand new, we’re helping. Any and all inner work that lovingly tries to tame the ever-churning “figure it out” thought cycle we get pulled into at the expense of our peace…that helps too. And bending down to feed the cats, the dogs, the ferrets, or sprinkle flakes of fish meal and spirulina into the aquarium by the front door. More glue, more adhesive to strengthen the bond between us all as together we rise and push back against despair and insist on love. Shifting one’s view away from the headlines like this is not just a good idea, it’s good medicine, water for parched throats. We mustn’t minimize it or dismiss it as soft, ineffective, Pollyanna folly.

I’m counting on these simple acts of continuance and connection. Just as sure as spring means a shaggy lawn and unbridled growth, I believe in the power of glue.

Join me.