using the arrow buttons.
by clicking on the page.
the page around when zoomed in by dragging it.
the zoom using the slider when zoomed-in.
by clicking on the zoomed-in page.
by entering text in the search field, and select "This Issue" or "All Issues"
by clicking on thumbnails to select pages, and then press the print button.
displays sections with thumbnails and descriptions.
displays a slider of thumbnails. Click on a page to jump.
allows you to browse the full archive.
about your subscription?
Lions Roar : March 2013
SHAMBHALA SUN MARCH 2013 52 armed with a pair of loppers—a word, and a tool, unknown to me previously—out I went to set to work. In one of those books, there had been a drawing of a hedge like ours: leggy and overgrown, offering more see- through than privacy. The next illustration, labeled “figure 2,” showed it all cut down (that’s where the loppers first revealed themselves to me), and in figure 3, a new, thick if somewhat lower version arose from where the sorry one had been. Drastic circumstances and drastic measures, yes, but—hallelujah!—a chance at transformation. The strangely seductive chapter “How to Rejuvenate an Aging Shrub or Hedge” drew me in; I didn’t hesitate or think it through. If I’d given any thought to the cycle of commitment I was engaging in, I would never have made a single pruning cut as the book detailed. I followed the instructions, which cleverly left out the part about what in the world you do with the remains of more than a hundred lineal feet of seven-foot-tall shrubs, once they have been cut down to maybe a foot high. No matter; I learned to bundle them with twine and set them out for the trash, a few each garbage day, and this became my mission, and my medi- tation: lop, gather, bind, drag, discard, repeat. From a moment in my life that seemed to offer only lasting despair—things that could not be cleaned up, nor brought back to a state of vigor and growth—I got what has become a lifelong connection to the natural world. In it has been the chance to bear witness to many births, declines, and deaths over the decades—the greatest of privileges and a daily window into my own ephemeral existence. When meteorological and nuclear havoc rocked Japan in March, 2011, I had trouble making sense of things and felt especially tentative and raw. When I confessed that “out loud” online, a reader—a compassionate, commiserating stranger— quickly reminded me of the Shaker wisdom “hands to work, hearts to God,” and I was grateful. That day, another late snow had just melted, so I grabbed a rake and went outside to have at it, while grappling with all the impossible thoughts. This is how it begins: modest and uncertain. But from a check of the deer fence to the first cutbacks, each expedition outside is a little more ambitious and farther ranging, creating widening circles of clean. Sometimes making sense of things just comes down to doing something, anything, outdoors. In the view out the window, there is always some bit of hope—or at least the chance to get in life’s rhythm, to get busy. MARGARET ROACH is the author of The Backyard Parables (reviewed on page 88), as well as And I Shall Have Some Peace There. You Don’t Have to Know JOHN TARRANT discovered that not knowing is the best—and maybe the only possible— response to suffering. Into this wild Abyss The womb of Nature, and perhaps her grave— Of neither sea, nor shore, nor air, nor fire, But all these in their pregnant causes mixed Confusedly, and which thus must ever fight, Unless the Almighty Maker them ordain His dark materials to create more worlds. – John Milton WHEN MY FATHER was dying I flew home to see him. The streets were bright with autumn sunlight; in the hospice his room was small and windowless (as soon as someone else died he would get a better room—information that made me consider the other patients with an appraising glance). His body, overwhelmed by inward forces of chaos and unregu- PHOTOBYERICABERGER