Peace In Gardening
Rainbow Chard
Gardening - like parenthood - is a humbling experience.
Shortly after my son’s death, a very dear friend of mine said something to the effect of, “I don’t know exactly what or when, but I have a very strong feeling that big things are going to happen for you.” And, you know, he was right. More than once.
Five months to the day following Greyson’s passing, I closed escrow on my very first home. One of the first “improvements” to my new property was to tear up the existing backyard and build (with the help of my favorite brother-in-law) a giant raised garden bed. I had visions of growing all my own produce in this new space. The goal was to limit my grocery budget and supplement only those items that couldn’t be grown within the frame of my own backyard. I was also working with my team of high-risk and fertility specialists at the time to reset my diet and get to a healthier place, so that I could try to have another child. Crazy, I know.
I should have prefaced this by confessing that up to that point I’d never been able to keep a succulent alive, much less a life-sustaining vegetable garden. Nevertheless, that first year I planted everything I could get my hands on: 6 or 8 varieties of tomatoes, bell peppers, potatoes, cucumbers, chard, artichokes, carrots, lettuce, broccoli, and some Asian cabbage plant that actually turned out (a whole year later) to be Brussels sprouts!
Knowing my history with simple houseplants, I began reading and watching every YouTube or Prime video I could find on organic gardening in order to give my new “baby” the best chance at a prolific life. Broccoli grown in old wine barrels did surprisingly well and I was so proud to harvest that first crown. I successfully grew two types of salad greens, was able to harvest small crops of carrots and little red potatoes. Above all else, it was the chard that grew best. The more I cut off, the more grew back in it’s place.
The flip side of those small successes were the moments of defeat. Cucumbers and bell peppers died almost immediately. I got a few tomatoes, but for the most part those were a bust, too. Whenever I’d go out to water or talk (yes, talk!) to my plants I’d find myself feeling like a failure each time another one bit the dust. On really bad days, when I was missing my son a little extra, I’d actually find that awful voice in my head saying, “You couldn’t even keep your child alive. What made you think you could keep these plants alive?” I’m crying as I write those words on “paper” because although it probably sounds ridiculous to the reader, those feelings of failure after the loss of a child are very real even if they aren’t true.
Looking back on that time I realize that my incessant need to grow such a wildly ambitious garden - to perfection - was my unconscious attempt at coping with feelings of having failed my child. As if keeping something else alive would prove that I wasn’t a complete failure to all living things. I did everything I could to keep that garden alive, just like I did for my son, yet both of their bodies gave out anyway. Whenever something in the garden didn’t “make it” I’d furiously re-watch videos or farming documentaries to figure out where I’d gone wrong. What could I have done differently to keep those little guys alive? Do you know what I learned? Even the most seasoned gardeners have to deal with bad crops. And sometimes even the most dedicated, loving parents lose their children.
Deep down I know I gave it my all - both with my son and my mega garden. What I realized is that parenthood, much like gardening, is all part of nature and most of it is out of our control. No matter how much time, energy, and care we put into them . . . life is simply unpredictable.
I never actually grew enough to live on, but with a lot more patience and pause I learned to love - deeply - the things that did grow, including my newborn daughter. I still plant a new crop every year and continue to purchase more starter plants than our space can realistically hold, only now I do it with Greyson’s sister. I know that not everything in that garden will survive, but the time spent nurturing both is priceless.
