gift of the garden

The gardener surveys her modest plot. I would have preferred something a bit larger, she sighs both to herself and to her benefactor. She has seen the large vineyards and orchards that He has given others, acres of blossoms and later sweet fruit. But for whatever reason, He has gifted her with a small flower garden, tucked away amid a few maples and a black walnut.

It really isn’t anything special, she believes, but it is hers to work the soil, plant what seems appropriate, or to abandon to weeds. It has been given to her with few strings attached, except that her time to garden, or not, is temporary and finite. She will have only as many growing seasons as the Master Gardener has planned for.

She shakes her head, sighing again. It isn’t in the location she would have chosen – too shaded, for starters. She would have preferred a spot with a little more sun and a longer growing season. Perhaps a raised vegetable garden in a warmer climate, so she could enjoy fruits of her labor year round, instead of preparing her plants for the winter weather that comes much too soon and for much too long. She laments that her flowerbed is not plainly visible to the rest of the world; very few people find their way to her little parcel. Nor does it contain the flora she would have picked. Had she the option, she would have chosen fragrant climbing roses, a deep purple clematis and perhaps even hollyhocks stretched taller than her small frame.

Instead, she was given this shady little area with nothing special about it except its deep, dark fertile soil. She didn’t have a clue what to do with it at first. She remembered feeling overwhelmed and even contemplating walking away. Someone else better qualified can turn this space into something beautiful...I can’t do it, she had thought and even believed. I have no experience in gardening, or growing or even getting dirty. Well, that part wasn’t exactly true. She knew she knew how to get dirty, just not doing the work required for this section of earth.

So, she began, taking timid baby steps at gardening, digging out chunks of sod, pulling out roots, preparing the dirt for planting. She experimented with different tools – hoes, shovels, garden claws, even rakes – learning what works and what doesn’t for the type of soil she found herself in, all the while consulting the Big Book of Gardening for instruction, however cryptic it sometimes was. She grunted her way through moving boulders to build a retaining wall at one end so she could level out the soil. Shaking her head now, she remembers how sore she was trying to move them by herself, by hand. Yeesh, thought you could do it all yourself, every last rock, she tells herself. After she finally realized how pride was preventing her from finishing her wall, she again had consulted the Big Book, only to learn that this garden wasn’t to be a solitary project. Yes, it was hers, and yes she was responsible for it, but she was exhorted to seek help from the Body of Gardeners. Within that Body, she found encouragement, advice, accountability and analysis. She also found strength beyond her own, muscles strong enough to help her with the boulders.

Many, many summers ago she began cultivating her plot. She started with a peony, added day lilies, a bleeding heart that reminded her of her grandmother’s garden and hostas she transplanted from another site. Each year, she found herself able to add more: creeping phlox, Ozark sundrops, daisies and carnations. Each season showed more signs of growth and more evidence that she herself was growing as a gardener. There were always setbacks: sometimes she didn’t want to listen to the advice given her by older, more experienced growers; sometimes she would forget to water her little parcel and her plants would become parched and droopy; and sometimes she just got sick and tired of all the dirt under her fingernails.

Each spring, she eagerly awaits the first signs of greenery poking through the mulch. Some plants survive her climate, but others succumb to the winter; She always grieved a little when a bush or perennial didn’t make it. She felt the loss of nurturing what seemed almost like a part of her - watering it, fertilizing it, caring for it and then to lose it for reasons she often couldn’t understand.

Some years, the flowers produce myriads of blooms and the gardening is enjoyable, fruitful and even easy. Some years it rains enough so she doesn’t have to drag out the hose to patiently water the thirsty plants. Other years, like this one, are just plain work. As she stands over the bed, she can see it isn’t getting any better. She is doing battle with crabgrass, pulling out the little green shoots only to have them crop back up in the same place a few days later. I thought I had you licked, she scolds them as if they are listening. It has become a daily war with the weeds – they don’t have the upper hand, but if she walked away now, it wouldn’t be long and they would take over her garden. She has found that they are easiest to pull when they are little weeds, with little roots. If she doesn’t get them right away, they become much harder to remove and often will break off at the base rather than release the root from her soil. She has weeded so much that she can recognize by sound whether the offender has come out with the root intact – it’s a bit of ripping music that helps take her mind off her aching back and tender fingers. The Big Book talks quite a bit about weeds, she notices, and not allowing them to take root. She knows that she has to keep pulling, tugging and jerking, no matter how weary she gets, if she wants her flowers to flower and her plants to mature. Once they grow enough, they will provide sufficient shade to prevent most of the weeds from seeing sunlight. Once she is able to add more plants into her garden, their fullness and sheer numbers will also keep the weeds down.

But, she isn’t at that stage in her garden yet. So, she is resigned to pulling weeds, a little every day, and nursing her aches afterward. Some days go well and she can finish quickly. Other days she barely gets started with the plucking and mosquitoes bombard her. She can swat away a few, squash several, but in a shady spot on a cool day they get a taste of blood and they swarm. Often, just when she feels like she’s getting the upper hand over the weeds in her garden, she is attacked from all sides, getting bites on her ankles, arms, neck and even her toes. Sometimes she armors herself with a Shield of Spray-on Protection and is able to work away unbothered. Other times, she simply has to run for cover inside and rely on the Master Gardener’s protection.

She will wait for a sunny day before she gets the courage to head back out again. A day like today...where she can prune in peace, deadhead in delight, transplant in tranquility, all within the sanctuary of her garden, little as it may be. She stands back again, perusing many years of growth and pain, death and learning. She smiles realizing her plot is sized just right, beautiful in its humbleness.

WIth a deep breath that takes in the mingled scents of peony and wet earth, she kneels down and gets back to her life’s work, exhaling a prayer of thankfulness for the task before her.