Last spring, I planted a garden. Other than a small space at the side of my childhood backyard where I used to plant snap dragons and dusty millers around a flat rock that I had carefully placed in the centre, and a fairy garden that I once meticulously planted in a plastic tray, it was my first solo attempt at gardening.
This spring, while I was planning out my next garden, I realized that in one year I learned some practical lessons about planting a garden.
1) Plant tomatoes that will yield at different times of the season so that you don't end up with hundreds of them all at once. Sitting in a box. On your kitchen floor.
2) Start your squash early, or when the frost comes, your squash will only be the size of a walnut.
3) One person can not eat the fruits of two rows of green beans, and not everybody loves green beans as much as I do.
4) Growing onions is satisfying and easy.
5) Staggering your planting is a smart thing to do. Very smart.
I never thought of starting a garden as a tribute to my heritage of farming and loving the land. It wasn't that poetic in my head. It was more driven by the sense of well-being that I get when I take the time to slow down and help things grow. I grew up with gardening parents, and a granny with a glorious flower and vegetable garden and a cold room filled with canned goods. At my granny's funeral this spring, my sister reminded me of the way that she gardened. We both have images in our minds of our granny bent over at the waist at the age of eighty, weeding, harvesting, or just appreciating her garden.
The two summers I spent working on an organic vegetable farm were two of the most lovely summers I have experienced. Few experiences have made me feel more 'present' to my life than that. Being part of the sowing, weeding, watering, harvesting, packaging, and selling of the vegetables tuned me in to the process of market gardening which, in turn, tuned me in a little more to a process that was a way of life for my parents and grandparents.
Even if my garden isn't intentionally poetic, there is an underlying romantic gesture in the act of gardening. I found this poem via Elisabeth, who I met in Switzerland. Elisabeth was a girl who brought a suitcase full of books with her on her voyage to Europe because she needed them with her just that much. She showed me Louise Gluck's book of poems, "The Wild Iris", and let me borrow it. I love Louise Gluck's poetry, especially this poem.
The Garden (Louise Gluck)
I couldn’t do it again,
I can hardly bear to look at it—
in the garden, in light rain
the young couple planting
a row of peas, as though
no one has ever done this before,
the great difficulties have never as yet
been faced and solved—
They cannot see themselves,
in fresh dirt, starting up
without perspective,
the hills behind them pale green,
clouded with flowers—
She wants to stop;
he wants to get to the end,
to stay with the thing—
Look at her, touching his cheek
to make a truce, her fingers
cool with spring rain;
in thin grass, bursts of purple crocus—
even here, even at the beginning of love,
her hand leaving his face makes
an image of departure
and they think
they are free to overlook
this sadness.
So, my own garden may not be all that poetic, but there is something lovely about participating in the process. There you have it. My conclusion: gardening is lovely.
Here are some photos of my soon to be lovely garden in its early stages this spring:
