Of Mulch and Monasticism

On Thursday evening, my spouse and I went out to dinner. When we returned home, 6 cubic yards of mulch was sitting in our driveway. Don’t get me wrong, we knew it would be coming, we just thought it wouldn’t be coming so soon. Our car was still in the garage–now trapped by the mountain of mulch–and the gate to our backyard was hemmed in to the point that we couldn’t get it open.

That night I scooped enough mulch to fill three of the beds on the west side of the house which, in turn, made enough space for us and the dogs to get into the backyard through the gate. The mulch pile sat dormant on Friday as my spouse worked at home and I worked with my dad to remove the old deck at my parents’ house so a new deck could be built. But on Saturday morning–bright and early and after a few cups of coffee for me and a Coke Zero for my spouse–the mulching began.

And it continued–for hours. I scooped the mulch from the pile, loaded it into the wheelbarrow, and then dumped it wherever my spouse pointed. Then they spread it out. By 9AM, according to our fitness trackers, each of us had met our step goal of 10,000 steps. By noon, we were at over 20,000 a piece. And we STILL. WEREN’T. DONE. 😳

There were times I wanted to quit–times when we both needed a break. There were times when I swore the mulch pile was playing tricks on my mind and was actually growing. Yet load after load, I returned to the pile to repeat the day’s refrain:  Pull down the mulch with a pitch fork, bend my knees, scoop a pile of mulch into the shovel, push up with my knees, dump the shovel of mulch into the wheelbarrow. Walk full wheelbarrow to designated spot. Dump where directed. Repeat as needed. 

As I scooped, I was aware of my breath–quicker at times, slower at others. I let my mind wander where it needed. I wept when it landed on my late nephew. I smirked when I saw the way the robins were impatiently waiting for me to get out of the mulch pile so that they could go through it looking for tasty treats. I marveled as I looked at my spouse working alongside me–nearly 50 years old (their birthday is Monday next week)–knowing that they weren’t supposed to live this long with their heart condition–feeling in my bones a deep, singing, gratitude that they have. I had thoughts of church, thoughts of home, and sometimes I had absolutely no thoughts at all. Somehow, as I worked, dripped sweat, felt muscles ache, cried, smiled, laughed, and moved, the mulch pile became like an altar in the sanctuary of my life. I just had to keep coming back. Though the experience felt new to me, it is nothing new for Christians.

St. Benedict is an ancestor in the Church who drew on the Wisdom of our Desert Mothers and Fathers–people who really wanted to practice what it means to put on the mind of Christ. From this Wisdom, Benedict laid the foundation of Christian monasticism and monastic transformational practice through the stable legacy of “Ora et Labora”–the Latin phrase meaning “Prayer and Work.” It was and is what some call the “fundamental rhythm for the balancing and ordering of human life, and for the growing of that beautiful rose of Wisdom.” Sister Joan Chittister writes of this rhythm saying, “No one thing absorbed the human spirit to the exclusion of every other. Life was made up of many facets and only together did they form a whole. Physical labor and mental prayer and social life and study and community concerns were all pieces of the puzzle of life.”

In other words, work flows into prayer, flows into social life, flows into study, flows into community concerns, and back again–and the Holy permeates throughout. When we step into these sacred rhythms, we join an unbroken chorus line of ordinary saints–regular people who have found deep connection and meaning as they seek to follow the Way of Jesus. Whether it’s scooping mulch, watching birds, or softening into a deep moment of gratitude, our lives are teeming with brushes with the Divine. 

Summertime is filled with LOTS of projects and outdoor work–tending the garden, painting the house, putting in a fence, feeding the birds, walking the dogs, mowing the lawn–whew! I’m tired just typing this! But in all of that activity, I wonder how our hearts might be changed–softened, opened–if we viewed this onerous labor as prayer? What if we didn’t just work to get it done, but worked as part of this ancient, sacred rhythm in which God draws near to us as we draw near to our breath, to the land and living creatures around us, to our families, to our neighbors? Might we live more whole lives? 

I don’t know, but that’s the hunch I’m taking away from my time at the mulch pile–my altar in the middle of our driveway, in the sanctuary of my life. I have to believe that you will find something similar at the altars of your summer projects too.Ora et Labora. Prayer and work. It’s all about sacred balance. 

Learning this sacred balancing act with you,
Pr. Melissa ​

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