Courtesy: Ginny Neil
“…Find out where joy resides and give it a voice far beyond singing. For to miss the joy is to miss it all.” —Robert Louis Stevenson
When I was first assigned this column, I asked my editor if we could change the name from Mountain Garden to Singing in the Garden. I believe that singing is one of the highest expressions of joy and I wanted my column to reflect some of that joy. Plus, I sing a lot when I work.
But, to be honest, although I had the singing down pat, I still had a lot to learn about the garden. My years of writing this column have forced me to learn many new skills so I can write honestly for my readers. I realized pretty soon after starting that I love looking at my garden, but weeding? Not so much. Mulching? Maybe later. Pruning and staking. Do I have to?
When the pandemic hit, I lost my hope. I lost my song. Then, the weather warmed and I returned to the garden. There wasn’t a whole lot else to do, so I used my hoe every day. I staked and tied tomatoes. I improved my half-hearted mulching. I yanked out weeds and relocated plants.
When so much else seemed out of control, my garden helped me regain a sense of balance. It gave me back my song. And, in the process, it taught me some things.
You don’t always get what you planned for, but keep your eyes open for something good to happen anyways. Although I plan diligently, volunteer plants from last year’s garden always poke their heads up in unexpected places. A cherry tomato wiggles out of the corn rows. Self-seeded kale invades the onions. Yellow squash shelter in the green beans. These unexpected plants reward me with surprise bounty. There’s no better pleasure than eating a sun-warm cherry tomato that required nothing more from me than forgiveness.
Even when you run into obstacles, it’s important to keep moving forward. Last year, many of my tomatoes, for reasons unknown, keeled over and died three weeks after I planted them. It was too late in the season to replant, but I did it anyway. The result was tomato sandwiches for lunch and sliced tomatoes for breakfast. I filled my cellar with salsa, juice and green tomato pickles. None of which would have been possible if I had given up when nature handed me wilt and rot.
If you devote yourself to something it will change you. I have always grown vegetables because I love eating them fresh and wanted to have food in the cellar at the end of the season. Last year, I spent so much time in my garden that it felt less like work and more like a friend. I looked forward to cool soil between my toes and warm sun on my back. I ran out every day eager to taste and smell life. In a time when I was socially distanced from most of the world, I found a new peace that had been buried by my previous busy-ness.
Don’t wait for beauty. Make it. I always plant two rows of zinnias at the edge of the garden and when they are in bloom, I take my coffee out to the porch and admire them. They put a cheerful glow on the start of my day. They aren’t blooming, yet, but I’m not waiting for that glow. Life is too short. I built a small seating area near my vegetable garden and I take my coffee there to watch yellow birds perched above red tomatoes. I will sit there when the zinnias bloom and as the corn ripens to gold. I will sit there when the smoky smell of burning debris signals the end of the growing season. I will sit there in the winter whenever the sun warms the wall behind it, and I will sit there when the soft green of spring rises again.
As a nation, we’ve weathered almost a year and a half of difficulty. May Sarton says that “Gardening is an instrument of grace.” Social distancing took many things from me, but it added some important things, as well. It was, like gardening, an instrument of grace. It is my hope that you found some moments of peace and grace as well.
The story above first appeared in our July/August 2021 issue.
