Landscaping makes me nostalgic for God

I was working on the landscaping around my house recently when something happened to me. While stepping back to take a break and to eye my progress while trimming a long and tall line of hedges that mark my property line, a warm wave of unexpected nostalgia swept over me. It was moving and profound, a moment of mysterious joy that felt revelatory of how things really are, a brief glimpse into the real.

I really enjoy working in the yard so it’s not at all uncommon for me to find joy, rest, and a sense of renewal in that kind of work. In a world increasingly mediated by backlit pixels, the tactile practice of working in the lawn has, for me, been grounding and calming. Yet, my love of a well-cared landscape and the felt benefits of doing the work were not the only source of this mystical moment I’m describing. No, this was a nostalgia rising from somewhere beyond, something deeper than yard work alone. As I gazed at the hedge line, appreciating the visual payoff of my progress, while simultaneously making mental notes of branches that still needed trimming, I somehow realized, or more accurately, received awareness; the work of landscaping makes me nostalgic for God. What do I mean by this? I’m not totally sure. I’m still working it out. Those warm nostalgic feelings that swept over me from out of nowhere are mysteries slowly unfolding, subtle shimmering invitations to sit with wonder. So, I’m hesitant to ascribe a final sense of meaning to what happened, but here are a couple ideas that seem to be clicking. 

Hedge trimming is basic work that can be done with very little presence of mind or attention to detail. On numerous occasions, I have trimmed this particular line of hedges quickly. Very quickly. I have attacked this chore with a frenetic, let’s-get-this-over-with pace, an energy that runs on the hype of busy-ness, productivity, and hurry. I have grinded through this task openly labeling it as an inconvenience, an obstacle standing in the way of something better. Yet, this time something was different. This time, I slowed down and engaged the task with an eye for detail, design, and beauty. This hedge line is long, so it presents a real challenge and opportunity to impart a visual sense of symmetry, shape, and composition. The more I got into trying to sculpt something artful, the more I slowed down, and as a result, the more I enjoyed the work. I guess you could say the context for the deep nostalgia which emerged was one part leisure, one part craft. The mix of slowing down in order to create something visually appealing, dare I say, beautiful, seemed to precede and give way to a sense of unexpected depth of joy. An unusual joy.

As overly dramatic as it may seem, for a moment, while standing in my front yard holding my hedge trimmer and squinting through the late afternoon sun at an ordinary bush, I experienced something transcendent. As I have reflected upon this experience, I have come to think that I was uniquely moved by a surprise discovery of beauty within the mundane. As an overlooked and neglected hedge became a canvas for expression and care, I was moved and stirred by the sudden presence of beauty in a place I had previously regarded as barren. It has since occurred to me that unexpected encounters with beauty have a distinct feeling to them. There’s a warm and lovely nostalgia that washes over me—a feeling of being taken back to a childlike awareness. It’s as if a veil is lifted, revealing the concealed presence of enchantment within the ordinary. The 4th century Church Father, Saint Gregory of Nyssa describes similar experiences in his writing. In grappling with the sheer profundity of mystical experiences, Gregory said, “Beauty is another name for God.” This statement, while provocative, strikes me as true on an experiential and emotional level. There’s something about beauty that makes me feel like I have just come up against what is foundational, holy, and life-giving. Beauty is emotive but that is not all. If we are attentive and open, beauty is also formative and shaping. In this case I was brought into a sudden awareness of God’s presence, a sense that I was not alone in my work, that my very life, even the mundane majority, is somehow held in love. 

When I care for plants, I’m reminded of how responsive life forms are to intentionality, patience, and care. A landscaper of a property has, over time, a high degree of opportunity to imbue a lasting vision, direction, and aesthetic. Plants are receptive. In reflecting on this responsiveness, I am reminded that this receptivity is true of my own life. My life and overall direction are deeply impacted by the intentionality, patience, and care of those around me. This truth fills me with hope. As much as I am truly happy with my life and proud to be right where I am, I long for more. Not more as in different life circumstances or a different job, but more in the sense that I want to be more. I want to be more virtuous. I want to become a better friend, a better listener, someone who is growing in faith, hope, and love. If I’m alone in that evolution, if it’s up to me to make that happen, to be honest, I don’t like my chances. But, if growth is an energy I am invited to cooperate with, if there’s a force acting upon me with intentionality, patience, and care, way more is possible for my life than I have the strength or ability to accomplish.

GK Chesterton, the scholar, philosopher, and theologian captures this potential for growth received, this way, “If seeds in the black earth can turn into such beautiful roses, what might not the heart of man become in its long journey towards the stars?” Here, Chesterton is pointing at the unquestioned power of natural forces to incubate and bring forth growth and beauty over time. Creation is charged with a splendid power from God to grow things. In rare and wonderful moments, I’m aware that I’ve been included in this incredible process. The Spirit of God is shaping my life through prayer, my community, and surroundings to bring about something good. In some sense, I am like the hedge. Though I spend most of my time oblivious to this process, I’m beginning to see the ways I am surrounded by intentionality, patience and care. I’m beginning to trust that my life is being shaped and formed into something good, something I could never plan or get to on my own. Perhaps learning to welcome and allow the way I’m being shaped would be an act of faith carrying me into a future where, like the seed, I eventually grow and blossom into something completely beyond my imagination, something more like Jesus than I’m prepared to envision for myself. This makes me want to cooperate with or at least learn to not resist the good work of love. Lately, cooperation has felt like an invitation to let go of anger and resentment in favor of grace and peace. This vision invites me to see humanity through eyes of hope and promise, as people in process on their way to becoming something marvelous. 

All told, I’m guessing the fleeting moment of transcendence I experienced lasted only a few seconds or so. It was only a moment, but it continues to echo and pulse with meaning. Somehow, slowing down and finding enjoyment in an overlooked task created the space to be surprised by beauty, connection, and a sense that our lives have the potential to be shaped into something beautiful. As I write this sentence, I’m sitting in my kitchen tired from the day and ready for rest. Another day down, another will start too early in the dark of a brisk autumn morning. What is this string of days, months, and years I call my life becoming? By pondering a mystical experience, I’m beginning to see that what I know or understand may be less important than the fact that underneath it all, I am known, seen, and have been visited by beauty…right in my front yard.  

—Josh VonGunten