Aspirational Gardening
Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about gardens. This has been mostly brought on by the walk into Golestan (Persian for garden), which begins unassuming (faded paint, no sign, that clipboard abandoned under the stairs forever) yet still alluring: tendrils of baby blue rosemary hanging down; lavender that the kids climb through, releasing fragrance; now with the budding spring, sunny daffodils. Through the gate, the garden bursts into splendor, it is actually such a balm to the heart that I won’t bother to describe it here.
I think gardens are enchanting because of what they are proof of: time, love, effort, heads bowed down to the Earth through every season, hands made rough and blackened with no promise of harvest. To garden successfully is to show up consistently and cocreate with God.
I do not necessarily have a green thumb. Actually, I can see a dying poinsettia from Christmas right from where I’m sitting now. I do want to give myself a bit of credit- I keep myself alive, along with several small humans, at least a dozen houseplants, many friendships, and a cat who tangoes with death more frequently than most. Yet the beautiful garden I had envisioned upon moving in has not come to fruition.
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Gardening is not second nature to me. I am more of a moonlit blood offering to a Redwood than I am a daily faithful sprinkle from a watering can. Yet, my resolve renewed ad spurred by my centenarian neighbor, I set to it. I made a todo list and have been dutifully checking off gardening tasks.
And I can’t. My body cannot. My back injury from Deember quickly flared, making my daily tasks painful and stiff. As of this moment, I cannot pull the weeds. I cannot assemble the garden bed, and I certainly cannot pick up the 50 pound bags of concrete I ordered at Home Depot. I have formed the theory that the edges of my borders are simply too singed by burnout, that instead of moving with the flow of inspiration, I will simply have to rest up, and who the fuck knows where I will be mentally when that’s done…
“In relationships we should tend to gardens in each others hearts”. This is the other aspect. This quote (something similar), I think from Sah D’Simone. It stuck with me immediately, it felt like exactly what I wanted to do. And I am now remembering my decidely not green thumbs. I am remembering all of the times I showed up with overalls and gloves and a shovel and was stood up. The times I left fruit half-bitten. Whatever, you get the metaphor… I want to garden with [REDACTED]. I want to stick it through past the fading of shyness. And also, at this volatile time at the edge of the eclipse, I am scared I won’t be enough. That I will show up, I will come after work, I will get the babysitter, I will buy the flowers and remember the birthday, but after all of it my bubbles will be flat and I will be a hollowed out oak from the burnout, scarred and walled, falling on childhood patterns, and that little girl did not know how to play nicely with others.
I think it is possible, though. I think I can turn my thumbs green.
