My Life as a Garden

To say that I am enjoying having a yard and space to grow plants is an understatement.  I’ve been gardening since I was a kid.  My parents always had a vegetable garden and my grandparents had a sizable one.  My aunt still does on the same land.  It was in that very soil that a tomato legacy was born.
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I have memories of pulling up to my grandma’s house and she would be picking Lima beans.  She was blind.  The only thing I never saw her do was drive a car, though my sister dreamed she did.  Grandma was behind that wheel and we were saying things like “A little to the right.  Straighten out the wheel”. And I wouldn’t have been surprised if she had pulled it off.  My grandmother was amazing.  

Grandpa & Grandma's sunflowers

So I guess you could say that gardening is my genes, though I’ll never claim to be much good at it. 

When I lived in the city, I managed to pull off some satisfying container plants at apartments and our condo.   I also built a few school gardens over the years as a teacher.  But without those gardens being right outside my door, it was difficult to tend to them in the summer when it was flourishing. I always felt a bit like a neglectful gardener when the garden was at school.  And I’m finding that I missed out on a lot too, some of the most interesting things that happen over an entire growing season. 

For me, there is nothing quite like getting my hands dirty. Clearing a piece of ground and planting seeds always makes me feel hopeful.  I love moving around in the space and letting my mind wander while I work.  I also love standing back and being able to see the fruits of my labor.  I feel a connection to my grandparents that are no longer here but taught me how to garden. 

I usually start planning my garden in February or early March.  I’ve been kicking around ideas since the previous growing season.  But once I start putting my ideas on paper, mapping out different spaces in the yard, I start to feel alive again.  It actually helps me emerge from my winter hibernation.  Days start getting longer; temperatures become bearable again.  And the thought and promise of green vegetation, pretty flowers, and fresh veggies begins to awaken my soul. 

I’ve also come to realize that what happens in the garden over the course of the growing season contains little bits of wisdom for me.  Seeds.   As my mind has wandered in my blissful work this season, I’ve discovered that my life, particularly my grief journey, resembles that of life right inside my garden. 

It all starts with a plan.  I make choices about what I want to plant, take measurements, and even premeditate a battle strategy against pests.  And once the earth revolves a bit more around the sun, making the soil come to life again, I begin to implement what appears to be my full proof plan. 

And then, well, nature begins to manipulate.  Almost immediately, my plan begins to feel a bit out of my control.  

This year in mid April, I started my seeds.  And even though I was ready, the soil temperature didn’t become warm enough for germination for many more days. Even though I had waited nearly 7 months to tend to my seedlings, that didn’t matter to them.  It continued to stay cool, until one day in the end of May when it finally was warm for several days in a row.  

After all that anticipation, our seedlings emerged so we began to prepare for war. I know from last year that left unprotected, the only ones that would enjoy our crops would be the bunnies. I also know from growing in the city, that you don’t need a huge space to grow adequate amounts of veggies. So we built the wall.  

We managed to enclose our seedlings to avoid being gobbled by the rabbits, and low and behold, a nasty little chipmunk found a weakness in the bamboo fence.  There went the watermelon blossoms and a few tiny melons to boot.   

Time to mend the fence. 

June was hot and bone dry and then bam!  The floodgates opened in July and it was like a monsoon season.  Too much moisture meant an opportunity for a fungal blight to infect my tomatoes. 

Not my tomatoes! My precious heirloom seed that has been in the family for 50 years or so.  The same tomatoes that my grandparents and my aunt have so lovingly grown all these years.  I managed to fight off the chipmunks from eating the fruit like last year, and now this.   The leaves start to yellow and then brown. 
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Time for damage control.  

However, in between these unexpected fluctuations in temperature and precipitation that result in tragedy, I enjoy the beauty that is starting to turn up.  I begin to notice that I have inadvertently created a red garden.  I have red canna bulbs that the hummingbirds love, red Thai chili peppers, tomatoes, and lovely crimson begonias on my front porch.  My delicate white pea blossoms and lavender flowers add a subtle but satisfying contrast.  

​The veggies start producing and I determine that we have won the bunny war.  My daughter tempts some of the older neighbor kids to try a sugar snap pea or a cherry tomato.  And they all wait patiently and watch the one watermelon that managed to survive as it matures.  It’s enjoyable hearing them share their observations and wonder how sweet it will be, how much bigger it will get, and what color it will be on the inside.  

Sugar snap pea harvest, Violet in grandma's apron

In another dramatic episode, my serrano pepper plant which was loaded with peppers, started to defoliate.  I harvested all the peppers and got busy in the kitchen.  A few weeks later I noticed that new leaves had emerged and blossoms were appearing.  The plant which I thought was a goner for the season, revived itself and surprised me with more beauty and more peppers to harvest. 
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My garden at the end of the season is a sum of all the things that occurred over the last two growing seasons.  Perfect, no.  Without tragedy, absolutely not.  But beautiful, purposeful, and nutrient rich.   It is the provider of fresh veggies for my family and neighborhood kids that are brave enough to eat them.  It is the source of complete satisfaction when I have an evening harvest and then prepare a fresh meal for my family.  

Life in my garden is a continuum.  It keeps on going, yet changing over time.   There is always a bit of range.  From the beauty and worth of the harvest to the loss from devastation which surprisingly can cause more growth, my garden is the sum of all its parts. 

So here I am now. At this moment in my life, I am the sum of all my parts too.  Perfect, hardly.  Without injury or hardship, no.  But growing.  And understanding that the most challenging of circumstances foster the most growth.  Seems kind of ironic.  Even harsh, and cruel.   But I can accept this now.

I can still wish it wasn’t this way as I weep for other moms that are living the same thing that I have.  But the beauty in their strength as they advocate for their children while they are alive and after they’ve passed will not be lost on me. 

And as I reflect on my second season of grief for Lucy, I’m noticing some things.  Last year was painful.  Reliving memories when Lucy was still with us was heart wrenching.  I think mostly because she should have still been with us.   And my heart just ached for her to be.  Not that it still doesn't, it always will.  But getting through all my firsts have allowed the gratitude and love to sort of encapsulate that pain in a way that makes it more bearable.  

This year feels dramatically different to me.  I feel joy when I remember the days when I held both of my girls.  My heart has been warmed by others acknowledging and honoring Lucy in special ways.  It feels good to start new family traditions, like carving a pumpkin for her too.  Last year it was just too painful.  A reminder that she was gone.  This year there was beauty and warmth in honoring her that way.  

​I’ve discovered grief gifts.  Little things that speak me as I wander around in my day to day life that remind me of Lucy.  It can be a special song that plays at just the right time, meeting a new Lucy at school, or more significant events like my oldest daughter drawing our family with 4 people in it.  To me, these are all gifts that allow me to pause and feel all the love that I still have and always will have for Lucy.  I always make sure to acknowledge those gifts with gratitude and hope that they continue to comfort me.  

About one year ago, while on a family vacation in Catalina Island, I discovered the heart2heartproject.  Angela Miller has a blog for grieving families called A Bed For My Heart.  Her grief gifts from her son are hearts.  She finds them everywhere, in nature and in food.  And she has a gallery where she posts pictures of hearts found by families in honor of their loved ones.  You can also post directly on her FB page. 
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After learning about this wonderful project, the very next day, I was humbled when my husband pointed out a cactus shaped like a heart while we were on a hike.   After going almost a year without noticing a heart, I received  more hearts this October.  A radish from my garden, two seeds joined together from Lucy’s pumpkin, and a few others.    

I do have to be fair to myself though and acknowledge what lies ahead.  I can sort of feel a shift as the calendar heads into November.  Trauma can be tricky.  It gets stored in the cells of your body.  And without being aware of it, the effects can sort of sneak up on you.  Kind of like the fungal blight that lies dormant in the soil until the next growing season. 
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So no doubt my body remembers how difficult it was to ride in the ambulance after resuscitating Lucy when she stopped breathing at home.  No doubt the cells in my body stored the strong emotion from making the decision to sign the DNR and head home with our sweetheart in hospice care.  No doubt the trauma of our little girl leaving our arms is still imprinted in the physiology of my being and it always will be. 

However, despite all of that, I can find some comfort in knowing that my grief is a continuum.  I accept that it will keep going, yet changing over time.  From the beauty of my grief gifts to the devastation of those difficult moments where my body does still ache for Lucy to be in my arms, I’ve learned to feel and be present in both so that I can foster new growth. 

So by allowing myself to grieve, I’m going to strive to be like my garden, and grow where I’m planted. 

I’ve been thinking about and writing this post off and on for months now.  One day at school, I was in a classroom that had their “I Am” poems on display.  This is a formulaic poem that teachers often share with their students at the beginning of the year to build community.  It fosters self realization but also gives others a chance to get to know you.  Here’s what I came up with that day:

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I AM
I am thick skinned like my family heirloom tomato.
I wonder how life will challenge my resilience again.
I hear the wind shaking my Thai chili peppers like maracas.
I see the dark pink radishes poking out from the soil.
I want to feed my soul with the fruits of my garden.
 I am thick skinned like my family heirloom tomato.

I pretend she’s still here, now learning to talk.
I feel an angel’s wings.
I touch the warm memories.
I worry she will be forgotten.
I cry for my Lucy.
 I am thick skinned like my family heirloom tomato.
 
I understand our love for you will never die.
I say you are the light.
I dream that you still feel our love.
I try to honor you.
I hope that you know how much I’ve learned from you.
I am thick skinned like my family heirloom tomato. ​