My garden holds much that you cannot see And cannot know. I keep you far away From haunted woods I know you’d brave for me But I can’t brave myself, at least today. You see the weeds (or some of them), of course, But can’t see how their roots run far and wide Under the surface, clinging with a force That seems too strong for me to exorcise. The bare and stunted trees are obvious And yet you touch them with a tender hand. “I know the storm’s been fierce”, is all you say. “How brave they are, despite the gale, to stand!” Kneeling, you part the overgrown grass with care, And show me snowdrops I hadn’t known were there.
It’s a precious gift, the gift of kind friends who see the good in you that you can’t (or won’t see) for yourself. You’re there in the darkness, critisising yourself, beating yourself up, telling yourself what a failure you are, and they come alongside you and show you yourself as they see you: not perfect, no, (kind eyes are not blind eyes) but strong and brave and good in ways that you may not always recognise yourself. They see the good, they name the good, and in doing so make it, perhaps, blossom in you that little bit more. I’m more grateful than I can say for the people who have done that for me—people who, in one way or another, have reflected the kindest eyes of all: the eyes that see me through and through, that know every deep-rooted weed and every corner of my haunted woods, and that still call me holy, chosen, loved.
Ah I love the imagery of last line especially. Snowdrops are my favorite spring flower- they arrive here even before the daffodils.