It wasn’t until recently that I have taken to planting a garden. when I was a child, I used to watch my mother kneeling over seedlings of tomatoes, and peppers and fresh herbs, with her floppy sun hat on, her sun glasses, and her trusty gardening gloves. She would pick the weeds, and loosen the soil with her gardening claw. There were bulbs of spring flowers to plant, and rose bushes to prune. There were little purple and pink blankets of tiny blossoms that spread over the garden. Every day my mom would check her garden, making sure there was enough sun, or that the squirrels hadn’t eaten her hard work. I have memories of her garden full of colors and smells that still linger in my thoughts when I pass a rose bush, or a honey suckle.
I am not as studious as my mother about my own garden, or for that matter most things in life. But there is something to be said for watching the fertile soil, filled with worms and other little creatures, all working hard to take a small seedling and produce a perfect tomato, or zucchini, or a sweet red pepper. I am in awe of what the earth can do all by itself, without our help or our hindrance.
My mother was, and still is, a very intense person. Always needing routine, and order in her life. She was never still, or calm, or relaxed except for her time in the garden. She found her quiet place. It’s where everything made
sense for her.
through my garden, I have started to gain a deeper understanding of this complicated, gentle, intense and beautiful person I call my mother, and in turn have started to understand that part of her in me.