“Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished.” – Lao Tzu
This spring, as I have traveled around, talking about my new picture book and how forests re-grow after a fire, I have been surprised by the answers children give when asked how long they think it will take for an acorn to grow into an oak. Many believe that a week might be long enough.
And, no wonder. We live in an amazing world where information appears instantly and there is hardly any amount of time between needing something and getting it. Technology has replaced empty hours and patient waiting. I worry that our children are missing out on something important. There seems to be less and less opportunity for unstructured work or play that lets them dream idly or imagine wildly. Less of what I call “slow time.”
For me, the best slow time begins in the spring. The local farmer’s cooperative store is bustling when I pull up. It’s a beautiful, high sky, not-too-hot, not-too-cold day, and it’s hard to find a spot to park. The weather has everyone thinking about gardening and growing things. We clomp around in our muddy boots, wearing badges of dirt on our knees as we discuss tomato varieties, plant spacing and how to defeat root-rot.
Back at home, I concentrate on getting my early spring vegetables and seeds into the ground. My grandchildren spent their own slow time last fall building roads and cities in the empty garden, but My Own Farmer has tilled the soil flat again. I grab some and squeeze. The dirt remains in a loose clump, much like a handful of moist chocolate cake. Not too wet, not too dry, and it’s calling for rain, so I lug out the push plow.
I measure and mark the beginning and end of each row with Popsicle sticks. Creating straight furrows requires nothing from me except hard labor and keeping my eyes on the stick at the end of the row. As I push the plow through the dirt, I watch the red wing blackbirds winging around the wetland and study the clouds sailing overhead. My mind has room to wander and I enjoy the sun warming my shoulders as I work.
Rows ready, I call in reinforcements. The grandchildren are the perfect size for placing onions and potatoes in holes and for poking peas, lettuce and spinach seeds into the warming soil. I grew up doing the same thing with my grandmother in her garden.
A newly planted garden cultivates slow time. It will be a week or more before seeds wake in their loamy beds to unfurl themselves one leaf at a time. Six weeks later, we will lie in the garden and peek at the bees working the flowers. Soon there will be pea pods the size of our pinkies and we will wander the rows plucking and tasting what it took two months to grow.
Gardens can’t be hurried. The peas will be the first in a long line of vegetables to ripen according to their time and season. There is nothing the grandchildren can do that will speed the tomatoes and beans along, but there are many slow chores, like weeding and caging, that we can do together that will help the plants grow strong. Chores that leave plenty of room in our heads for pondering and cogitating, and admiring the garden spider staring at us from the huge webby wheel she’s strung between tomato cages.
If you are longing for slow time, go buy some seeds. Find a pot or a plot and get your hands dirty. Spend your summer watching peas plump in their pods and corn stretch out to tickle its tassels against the sky.
And, if you garden with children, understand that you will be planting more than a garden. You will be planting seeds of slow time. And, your harvest will yield far more than you expected.
The story above first appeared in our May / June 2024 issue.
