A Gardener's Dream

On Monday I was in my garden. Finally. Spring (or perhaps winter, depending on your perspective) has been a bit reluctant this year.  It wasn't until late last week that the tide seemed to turn and spring established itself. The past few days the temperatures have climbed into the balmy seventies. The fire in our wood stove was abandoned over the weekend. The windows have flung open their eyelids to take in the world and the warmth. Naturally, the plants are responding with countless buds and blooms. These were all the signs I needed -- on Monday I was in my garden.

I've mentioned before that this season is a bit different for our homestead. “My” garden is a relative term because the plot that will now yield our annual supply of produce is shared by three households – my own and those of my parents-in-law and my brother- and sister-in-law.  Already I’m aware that one of the major benefits of this set-up will be that my schedule is not the limiting factor for things getting done. In fact, no individual schedule will deter the momentum. Mind you this plan increases the need for communication and coordination, but it’s a small price to pay. It’s nice to know that the To Do list is now copied in triplicate.

When I arrived with my trowels on Monday after school there was a new sixty-foot-long trench dug on the far side of the plot. It was speckled with lime. Crowns of asparagus were dotted down its center like a two lane road. My father-in-law appeared and gave me the tour of what he and my mother-in-law had sweated over that morning. Then he “handed over the baton” to me and headed back in the house. I was clocking in for my shift. Weldon was to join me in a while after his own commute home from work. Toting our brassica transplants from the car (36 broccoli and 24 cabbage) I sized up my stretch of dirt. Late last week I had scratched back the mulch from the three-foot wide swath encouraging the sun to warm and dry the soil. Then Weldon had taken a broad fork to the row to loosen things up. (We’re very protective of our earthworms’ hard work to build soil structure and increase nutrient value. As such, we are opposed to tilling.) Everything was now ready for me to start planting on this beautiful Monday afternoon.

Unfortunately, my mind was in “go mode” from the day’s regimen at school, the requirements for supper to manifest, the plethora of recent conversations and happenings, and the lengthening list of things yet to be done that evening. An ungodly amount of time passed while I polka-dotted the row with my trowel attempting to organize my 18-inch zigzag spacing. Could I knock out this brassica job, put potatoes in the dirt two rows away, get home in time to throw a decent meal together, and get on to the other tasks unfurling in my mind? Somewhere between broccoli #7 and #12 I realized how revved and anxious I was. I decided to address this issue because it was indeed “an Issue”. Instantly I determined the potatoes could wait until the next day. Then I calculated that dinner wouldn't take overly long to concoct and that the Have To’s for the night weren't nearly as daunting as I was making them out to be. Before I knew it I was sensing the cool moisture of the soil and the flaky dryness of my darkening fingers as they caked with dirt. I could feel the breeze on my neck like rhythmic waves of the ocean. In a crouching kneel I moved slowly and steadily, repetitive like a machine, but fully sensory as is a human’s gift. 

Then I realized the symphony around me was tuning -- a cacophony of regal tones communicating with purpose and brevity. Birds made chorus like an avian United Nations. I couldn't translate, but I tried to understand each one. Newborn lambs in the nearby fields eagerly bleated while their mother ewes answered with comforting sounds of care and caution. Every once in a while one of the cattle would bellow like a foghorn. If the right note rang across the pastures the bull would reply from his paddock with guttural bravado and a pacing dance. The hmmmmm of unseen bugs kept cadence. Occasionally the percussion of horse hooves and buggy wheels or the rumbling crescendo of a diesel engine in the distance would signal a neighbor’s passing on the road. I consumed this entire aural feast for as long as I was bent over the brassicas. It felt so much better for my mind to be where my body was at that time and in that place. In harmony, if you will.

Eventually I straightened to look back at the sixty green sentinels standing in attention at their newly assigned posts in the soil. It was indeed a zigzag, but not a mathematically or visually accurate one.  “Oh well. The plants don’t mind,” I shrugged. Weldon had arrived sometime back in the middle of my reverie and the two of us had worked together silently most of the time. His own moment of harmonious transition came when he decided he needed to chuck his socks and work boots, roll up his pants, and traipse around the garden in bare feet. After I finished my task he followed behind with a watering can as if giving each one an, “At ease, soldier”. With the sun hanging low we packed our tools and I headed home to rustle up some grub and orchestrate my evening.

For me gardening is a lifestyle choice, not a hobby. It comes with countless benefits that span the gamut from connecting with nature, creating something, and working with my hands to self-sufficiency, healthful food, and frugal living. Even still, it takes effort to make gardening a priority in my schedule. But oh, is it worth it! No matter how you slice it, Monday’s stint was a gardener’s dream.