Sophia Bank's Blog: Arimathea Resuscitation—The Source and Origin of my Spiritual Renaissance and Writing Creativity

I wasn’t a gardener until Dad died.

It is in my soil where germinate and sprout all things that are me.

I entreat the Gardener to sink His hands into my dirt and help me produce the world of my perfect creativity.

As the Gardner’s fingers reach into my ground I am moved by the vision that pushes my dust and clay here and there. Moving my earth is essential because I have stalwarts and incongruous debris that get in the way of me growing the codes and philosophy that He and I desire.

From amended ground comes the calm and still culture. Clay full of life, not death; earth that promotes truth, not mendacities; dust that builds a truthful way through the wasteland—this is the cultivated soil that spawns the culture of my animation and my inspiration.

I aspire toward an eternal peace and warmth. Not to live forever is my hope, but to be young in my garden and unpretentious in my spirit for as long as I inhale.

To freeze time and be one with eternity; to be childlike in my creations and unequalled in my mercy; to be infinite in my soil—this is the culture of my dreams.

But, in my atrocious fallow ground, my spiritual soil doesn’t like to be disturbed.

My soil’s horizons are artless, but can be extremely impenetrable and not pure ground for cultivating things.

And yet, there are living things increasing in my soul that rise above my limitations. Despite my anxieties and frailties, a garden has managed to grow in my dirt. Like the ground it grows in, the garden is ancient.

The Gardener has diligently tended to my transcendent mud and dust, carefully pruning the branches of the trees raising in the grove, in the pursuit to cherish my fruit.

In the Gardener’s supremacy, my ground is protected from weeds and corrupt elements.

Working the soil of my garden is a relentless labor.

The Gardener tends my spiritual garden.

Calling to my soul, the spring resuscitates my soil, and in my awakening, the Gardener is, once again, compelled to sink His hands into my loam and touch my excellent worth.

To give love; to grow life; to protect the seed—these great acts are the noble feats of the Gardener.

Such invincible deeds give parturition to the musings that give life to me.

The Gardener adores me, and every spring I am resurrected in the tender sprout and abundant frond.