Each year when the garden starts to fill in, it surprises and delights me. It erases my doubt and helps me to believe in tomorrow
A cold snap in late February killed the spinach. Then a rodent got into the greenhouse and mowed down the endive and chard seedlings. But after these false starts, my garden has finally started to look more alive than dead.
This predictable shift always surprises me. Though I love to grow things (especially things to eat) each time I bury a seed, a Greek chorus clears its collective throat and whispers in my ear: Nope. Not a chance. Nothing will come of this.
Decades of growing food have done little to temper this stubborn pessimism. Each spring begins with a flurry of manic gardening energy laced with deep, nagging uncertainty: Maybe my soil is too acidic. Maybe the compost didn’t rot long enough. Maybe last year’s seeds aren’t viable–and why is it that I am too cheap to buy fresh seed every spring?
Or I worry that critters will eat whatever I try to grow. Yes, the greenhouse is lined with rodent-proof steel mesh, and the raised beds are surrounded with a (theoretically) unclimbable fence of rolled steel. But they’re making smarter mice all the time, you know.
I check the new plantings two or three times a day, my spirits falling every time I fail to find those tender green nubbins. When the first shoots finally push up through the dirt I feel a shiver of joy and breathe a sigh of relief. But this quickly morphs back into worry. So much can go wrong–a hard freeze, insect infestation, blight. If it can fail, my inner gardener intones, it will.
So I was pleased this morning to gather the year’s first harvest. Today’s little basket of arugula and chard was barely enough for one salad, but now hope fills the springtime air: I’ll be hard-pressed to use all the greens that are popping up this week.
The first strawberries have ripened, too, tasting nothing like their bloated, watery cousins at Safeway. The thumb-sized berries, sweet as condensed sunshine, hardly ever make it into the house. To pluck and eat a few transports me to the summers of childhood, when a half-hour on hands and knees would net me a cup of tiny, wondrous, luscious fruits.
Soon the peas will come. Then the cucumbers and yellow squash, the tomatoes and red peppers, the sweet basil and cilantro and Serrano chiles … a whole dirt-worshiper’s menu of good stuff that promises to rise from the mysterious subterranean world like a squad of photosynthetic superheroes.
About this time each spring I remind myself that, despite my habit of cultivating the negative, the garden generally works out pretty well. Every plant is well-equipped for survival and as determined to live as you or I.
Vegetables will always seize their moment. They have DNA to pass on, after all, and will do their best. We humans, with our trowels and spades and watering cans, are their teammates in this vital project. Together we build a future that’s worth looking forward to.
My little truck-farming operation isn’t much–just an 8×14 greenhouse and a few small raised beds–but tended carefully it will deliver heaps of food this season. This bounty is well worth the digging and sweating, the watering and weeding and worry.
But it’s about much more than calories and flavors. Each year when the garden starts to fill in, it surprises and delights me. It erases my doubt and helps me to believe in tomorrow. A patch of climbing green beans rewards patience; a row of feathery carrot-tops teaches faith in the unseen.
It’s no wonder that ancient religions evolved around the planting and harvesting practices of early societies. Other than our species’ own experiences of procreation and mortality, what could have seemed more important, more dense with mystery and meaning?
The growing of food is a practical course in miracles. Asking only for water, sunshine and a few minerals, one tiny seed can transform itself into a vine or bush freighted with cherry tomatoes or banana peppers or giant pumpkins. We look on, amazed. We eat. We give thanks. We celebrate.
