Garden Notes 2014

All summer I’ve been watering by hand, swinging the garden hose like a censer.  I sowed late this year, but a riot of zinnias in the front bed has overgrown the basil which stretches, looking for sun.  I should make pesto with it before it gives up entirely.  The zinnias’ main competition is a lovely flowering perennial that’s gone to seed.  I can’t remember its name, nor the name of the neighbor who gave it to me, but the hummingbirds and butterflies love it.  I can’t even identify the lovely color of its trumpet blossoms – something between coral and fuschia.

In the garden on the side of the house, one bed lies fallow, waiting for cooler weather to plant lettuce.  The jungle of blackberry threatens to block the gate, its vines arching like fireworks, some heavy with ripening fruit.  Volunteer cosmos gain inches every week, overshadowing Arden’s rose and the gladiolus that finally decided to bloom.  I water, having drained the rain barrels yesterday, wondering if today my diligence will somehow cause the rains to come again, my silent plea to the skies.  The rows of flowers bob and nod, bob and nod, as if in prayer.

Witness

I’m still waiting, two weeks post-planting, for my sweet peas and gladiolus to emerge.  I feel anxious and apprehensive every day as I enter the garden.  Is today the day?  Why haven’t they sprouted yet?  Am I watering enough?  Too little?  How are those seeds and bulbs doing down there, hidden under that dirt?    I gently remind myself that they know far more than I do about what’s happening in this small plot of ours.  I will try not to burden them or myself with too much expectation.

As of this afternoon, they still haven’t sprung through the soil.  But I did gather an early harvest from my garden today:  two slender stalks of asparagus which I’d planted last spring.  I’ve added them to the store-bought bunch I’m steaming for dinner tonight.  I’m certain that I’ll recognize my own, just as a mother can pick her child from the crowd.  I was a bit sad to cut them, afraid that perhaps these two spears would comprise the year’s yield.  Yet, as I knelt with my pruning shears in hand, I saw that more spiky tips had just barely broken through the soil.

As much as I’d like to claim their emergence as having something to do with me, I won’t.  I’d rather just revel in the mystery of it all:  how these plants just know; how they each do their thing silently, but brightly; and how grateful I am to witness, quietly, this spring.

[ this moment ]

[ this moment ] - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember. (Homage to Soule Mama)

[ this moment ]

[ this moment ] - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember. (Homage to Soule Mama

Lessons from my Garden

#1 Patience: The plants will grow. Let them. Water them. Visit them, but not too often. Don’t harvest too soon, even though it is so tempting to pull up carrots to check if they’re ready yet.

#2 Carpe Diem: Harvest before the rodents serve themselves, because the rodents can sense our thoughts: “I’ll harvest this tomorrow when it’s just that much more ripe.” (rebuttal to Lesson #1)

#3 Timing: Plant too soon, and the frost will claim the seedlings. Plant too late and there won’t be enough time for the fruits to ripen.

#4 Defense: This year, I worried far too much about infiltration from footed animals, and not enough from those with wings.

#5 Space: Don’t underestimate the space plants will need. (See also: volunteer yellow-pear tomato that currently is taking up half the walkway in addition to 3/4 of the pea / bean bed.)

#6 Plant More Flowers: You can’t have enough, and the phrase “too many” does not apply to flowers. Plant flowers that remind you of others (i.e., delphinium and sweet peas for Gram, roses and cosmos for Arden, and daffodils for Madeleine) because you will, indeed, feel their presence among the blooms.

#7 Wonder: Be amazed that those tiny seeds know exactly what to do, and when, and how.

#8 Contemplate: Wish that certain aspects of human life were as clearly defined as the roles of seeds. Rejoice that most of them aren’t.

Cultivating Hope, Part II

We’ve spent many weekends this year preparing for our first garden. We had a fence installed, and then built beds. We hauled dirt, mulch, and compost. We set up an irrigation system including barrels to harvest rain. And of course we planted seeds and seedlings. And throughout it all, we hoped.

And just when it seemed that we had everything in place, including the timer on the irrigation system adjusted just-so… we left on a two-week vacation.

We left cosmos plants, not yet six inches tall; pumpkin and melon plants with three leaves apiece; a puny basil plant near a couple of equally small pepper plants. It seemed very much a nursery, what with all these baby plants that had just barely poked up through the soil. We did, however, enjoy our first harvest before leaving: a single tiny strawberry. I shared it with Madeleine, and it was sweet and juicy – just as we’d hoped.

And so, when I returned to my garden, which had enjoyed a couple summer thunderstorms in my absence, I was astounded at the changes in the plants. It was comparable to seeing my nephews after a long interval apart: how is it possible that they have grown this much!

And not only are most of the plants larger, the pumpkin and melon (or is it cucumber? I didn’t label well this year – a lesson for next time) threaten not only to take over their own beds, but their neighbors’ beds as well. Some plants I don’t recognize. Are they weeds? I’m willing to wait and see before I rip them out. And others I recognize but know I didn’t plant: tomatoes. They must be volunteers from the compost.

It’s gratifying to see how well the garden is doing, even if there’s a part of me that thinks: these plants did this all on their own. We gave them what we hoped was an environment in which they could thrive. We should all be so lucky in our own lives, that our proverbial soil was well-prepared for our arrival, right? And the lessons the garden teaches are of the highest magnitude. Not much teaches staying power quite like waiting for those berries to ripen, or pulling up a carrot that I think must be ready, only to find it’s about the size of a fork tine. And there is always the lesson of perseverance: next year, next season, we can try something new or do something better.

Again, I see the parallels to parenting, and life in general, and I think of Voltaire and Candide as well: Il faut cultiver notre jardin, loosely translated as “We must cultivate our garden.” This is sometimes used in the context of ‘first things first’ or ‘let’s take care of our own problems before we tackle the problems of others.’ At this point in my life, though, as a mother of two with a full-time job, I see another interpretation: Find ways to seek happiness within the confines placed upon you.

There are few hours minutes in my day that aren’t filled with responsibilities to my children, my husband, my home, or my job. I’ve made my peace with that, and I wouldn’t trade my lot with anyone. And yes, being a full-time mom / wife / teacher is sometimes difficult – but compared to what? Compared to a 19th century homesteading wife? Or compared to a medieval mother? Or how about a present-day Afghan woman? What if this garden was my family’s sole source of food? I’m grateful that it’s not, although there is something very gratifying about (the idea of) feeding my family with the literal fruits of our own labors. Putting my life in perspective helps me to realize that I do live in the best of all possible worlds.

And the garden helps me appreciate that. I’ve really been striving to carve out time for myself to write, to exercise, to learn Spanish, to read, to garden. And it is in these moments that I am capable of finding happiness in small things – and where, it seems, hope cultivates itself.

Cultivating Hope

I water the pots on the deck, one by one. I smile, noticing the incremental changes from the day before, from last week. The lettuce leaves are bigger, darker, curlier. The scallops on the edges of the sprouts of parsley are just that much more pronounced. The horseradish seems to shadow half of the container. The spindly soybean vine reaches another rung on its bamboo and twine ladder. And just peeking out, a shy barely-pink strawberry.

I’m new at gardening. It’s a grand experiment, really. I don’t know if anything I grow will actually be worth eating. I hope it will be. I have faith that these little plants will know what they are supposed to do, because I certainly don’t know what I’m supposed to do, besides providing a little water and some food.

If this summer’s experiment goes well, I’m considering fencing in a portion of our yard to do a “real” garden. Time will tell. Northern Arizona is not a very easy place to garden. At a mile high, we have cold winters and hot summers. And the gusty wind is dry and brutal. In the spring, the temperatures fluctuate wildly, luring the trees into bloom just to freeze again the following week. And here in our neighborhood the deer, bunnies, and javelinas truly believe that much of my flower bed is for their benefit.

The gardening process seems a lot like parenting. I give these plants a little space to grow, a little nourishment, a dose of sun, and I cross my fingers. I haven’t had to instill much discipline yet, but the plants are all so small still. I am proud of their progress although I feel it has little to do with me. Maybe the wind won’t blow too much. Maybe this year we won’t be visited by the grasshoppers that leap from the ground like popping corn. Maybe it will rain – but not too much, not too hard. I hope there is just enough adversity to make them strong. I hope and I hope and I hope.