Lessons from Gardening: Rejoicing in Rain

This past week, I was outside early in the morning and after the sun started to set, pulling weeds and planting flowers.

With the thermometer climbing to 87°F in the afternoons, I postponed my usual indoor storytelling work until midday. Nobody needs to hear me grumbling dramatically while gardening.

Gardening humbles us.

No matter how carefully we plan our gardens, Nature still reminds us who is really in charge. One minute I’m confidently arranging flowers like a landscape architect, and the next minute I’m staring at a rabbit eating my petunias as if it paid for them.

Several times in the middle of the night, I awoke to the sound of rain.

And I rejoiced.

Not just because it cooled the air, but because it would make the weeds easier to pull. There

are few spiritual experiences quite as satisfying as yanking an entire dandelion out by the roots in one triumphant tug. Gardeners understand this kind of joy. Other people think we’re outside communing with nature. Sometimes we are simply hunting weeds with the intensity of FBI agents.

While weeding, I began pondering how rain gives us hope.

Rain arrives without asking permission. It softens what has hardened and replenishes what has been depleted. Flowers and fields that looked tired yesterday suddenly perk up as if they’ve had espresso. The miracle of rain is that its benefits are not always immediate, but they are nearly always certain.

Rain teaches us patience. It reminds us that growth often happens underground, unseen. Seeds split open in darkness long before anything green appears. Rain reassures us that just because we cannot yet see change does not mean it is not underway. Rain doesn’t erase what came before, but it prepares the ground for what comes next.

Rain levels us. It falls on cities and forests, rooftops and rivers, the powerful and the powerless alike. There is hope in that fairness, a reminder that we are part of a shared system, sustained by forces larger than ourselves.

Rain is cleansing. It washes the air and clears the dust. After it passes, the world smells fresher, looks sharper, feels more possible. Even the weeds look happier, which frankly seems a little unfair.

Rain tells us that renewal can come softly, steadily, drop by drop, until one day we realize that something essential has been restored.

The rain also inspired me to think about how I might lighten the heaviness I sometimes feel

about our world. I decided to begin taking FBI Special Agent Dale Cooper’s advice in Twin Peaks:

“Every day, once a day, give yourself a present.

Don’t plan it, don’t wait for it.

Just let it happen.”

I’m looking for small things that replenish my joy and hope: a bouquet for the dining room table, wearing a colorful scarf or favorite earrings, listening to lovely music, trying a new

recipe, reading a novel, or calling a friend to chat. Occasionally, my “present” is sitting quietly with a cup of tea while pretending I cannot hear the weeds plotting their next invasion.

What “rain present” might you give yourself?

How do we cultivate and renew our professional work, doing the groundwork, uprooting what is no longer of service, enriching the soil, planting seeds and tending what sprouts from them, being patient, and accepting the Universe’s timing?

And perhaps most importantly, how do we remember to rejoice when the rain finally comes?

#carolmccormick #gardening, #rejoicing #nature #patience