Earth. Love. Life.

Growing up I was usually covered in dirt and surrounded by plants, indoor and outdoor. My childhood was spent watching my father tend to his garden, and my mother, tend to her elderly Christmas cactus. I would make mud pies and go mud sliding on rainy days. I would play freeze tag amongst snap peas and roses. I have this memory of going outside at night and looking up at the moon. My father had planted small pumpkins close to the house that were vining into the yard. The moonlight reflected off of their skin as the October wind found its way around our small neighborhood. The garden represents so much in my life. I am in constant anticipation of warm Spring days when I can start cultivating my history. I enjoy the warm earth as it surrounds my fingertips, the promise of the new season. Throughout my adult life I have been searching for something that would bring me back to joy. When it’s time to plant, I find something close to the truth. A familiar world, a rush of memories as the sun lays its hand on my face telling me to remember. It’s nice, this idea that time travel is real, even just for a second within the smallest act of growth.

I revisit my idyllic childhood often. I speak to my father as he waters his vegetables. I ask him if he’s happy. I sit in the kitchen and watch my mother make fudge. I walk around my childhood home, climb on the roof, and look up into a familiar sky. I run my hands along fences, take in the breeze, and hear friendly voices. I can still see the thriving garden and the life it represented. I write often about my father and the impact his leaving had on my family. The loss of the garden became a representation of my family unit. Once thriving and harmonious, the garden and it's life faded. Over the years I've been trying to reconnect to those better times. I kept looking for happiness in others, failing. The more I looked deeper within myself, the more I discovered the answer was there all along. This tendency to gravitate towards growing things that need care and attention. The garden has become my meditation, my prayer, and a gift to my children. This spring has become a cultivation of notions. My garden is becoming and I’m still learning lessons… as to say… not just about how to grow tomatoes.

My Father’s gravestone says, “My Garden, My Love, My life,” which I wrote. He was so invested in the earth and he could wield it. I swear he could take a patch of dirt, throw down some seeds, and it would become an Eden. In the days leading to my father’s death, he was still outside, tending to his garden as though the earth sustained him. This was his happy place. The garden was his constant, something he could rely on. In a way, it's become that for me and more. It's not just my connection to him, but also my quest. It's like wanting to recreate a recipe your grandmother always made. She never taught you how to make it, but you're always trying to get the same flavors, the same feeling with the first bite. No matter how hard you try, you get close, but never close enough. You end up creating something on your own, and ode to that love.

Since I bought my home I’ve been trying to cultivate what I want my garden to be. What I want my children to feel. I want them to be enshrouded in a safe green spot in the world. I want them to appreciate growing things. I keep reaching into my past and taking away ideas that become real. In a way, being in the garden, creating a space for my family has always been about rediscovering love and the meaning behind loss. It’s poetic to me, it's become a craft with me taking old spells and creating new magic. Something my children and my family will feel throughout their lives.

The garden takes work, dedication, time, patience, and overall an unconditional love. It’s a testament to what it takes to find happiness. It’s a constant teacher, even in the depths of winter and darkness. I think about the movie 28 Days with Sandra Bullock. Have you ever seen it? In the final scene two characters are in a garden shop. Bullock’s character is out of recovery and has been told to keep a plant alive, as it’s a sign of health and an ability to sustain a relationship. She runs into a friend who was also in recovery. He’s holding a dead plant, with a dog on a leash asking the shop owner why his plant died. He turns to Bullock’s character and immediately starts crying making the statement, “I’m never going to get laid.” Dedicating time to life is hard. It takes effort and a good sense of humor. We keep trying, we fail, we succeed and we move on. We learn and we grow. If you’re in search for your happiness, often the answer is within. It’s scary to reach inside and confront discomfort. Take time with yourself, spend time with others, and be patient. Cultivate the life you want.

Be well.