Temporary Beauty

The warm weather drove me to my flower bed, where I raked away dead leaves and twigs, revealing green shoots and rick, black earth beneath.  Every year, this springtime experience invigorates me and gives me hope and energy.  Not this time.  My thoughts were clouded with reminders of past gardening failures.  Every spring, I cultivate my two little flower beds, setting them up for success with a colorful assortment of flowers and daily careful weeding and watering, only to lose conviction and let the sunflowers and grasses take over by mid-August, after half of my carefully selected flowers have died.  I am a bad gardener. 

Usually, though, I can forgive my past failures and plunge right on ahead, determined to do better.  Is it a sign of defeat or maturity that I am reminding myself this year that I can't do it?  Am I being realistic or fatalistic?  My little flower bed seems pretty insignificant compared to the other parts of the yard that are in weedy shambles, too.  Why even try?  Come to think of it, why try anything?  I have a whole garden variety of failures under my belt in every area of life;  scripture study, nutritious meal preparation, food storage, visiting teaching, returning library books on time, keeping my closet clean, being a good neighbor, taking the dogs for walks, not forgetting things.  It is empirically proven that I cannot succeed in any of these areas for a sustained period of time.

So why am I yearning to drive to the garden store and walk slowly up and down the aisles, breathing in the fresh dirt smell?  Why will I carefully select my favorite flowers?  Why will they uplift my spirit, why will I love the colorful blossoms, when I know I will eventually neglect them to death?  Why don't I heed the voice in my head that says, "This is not going to work.  You can't do this."

I don't know, but I suppose I would be worse off if I gave up entirely.  At least my front yard will be beautiful in June.  And maybe all beauty, all success, is temporary anyway.