Yesterday in our garden, which my horticulturist husband tends with loving daily attention, I noticed how each day, each season, the garden is perfect just as it is, and yet it is also always changing, always becoming. It both is and is becoming.

I think we too often confuse “becoming” with “improving.” I am trying to look at myself just as I look at our garden: perfect as I am, and “as I am” always includes becoming something different – not better, just different. Sometimes growing, sometimes quiet, sometimes blooming, sometimes weedy, sometimes green, sometimes brown. Always is, always becoming, always filled with love and divinity.