Kydrasaur

I have a garden that I love to work in every day.

During the lockdowns, I learned the difference between having a garden, and tending a garden. It turns out that I just love to tend my garden. I love to walk in it, smell all the smells, prune it and tie it up where it needs it, keep the soil healthy, and leave it alone when I've done enough.

In a lot of ways, I use my gardening time as a metaphor. One that was particularly meaningful to me lately came when I was pruning this feral tomato that showed up in one of my beds late last year. As a general rule, when I get any volunteers, I leave them alone, except to keep them away from things I've planted myself. But in this case, it was growing so fast and getting so out of control, I had to rein it in a bit, with some pruning and gentle redirection of the parts which were tied to the trellis.

I started thinking about the individual stalks as parts of my life experience: here's one that doesn't have anything growing on it, but if I follow it all the way to this point, I can see that it's providing support and nutrients to this huge, thriving, massively flowering hunk of the plant. It turns out that part may look like it isn't doing anything, but without it, this other part that's gorgeous wouldn't exist.

I could have just looked at it and seen a stalk that wasn't doing anything. I could have easily pruned it right then and there, and only after would I have discovered this lush, thriving, beautiful part of the plant that can't exist without this other part. I was so grateful that I took the time to look at the whole thing, to see that bare stem in context, to appreciate it.

I don't know if this particular metaphor lands on you, but it landed real hard on me. It inspired a wonderful moment of reflection and gratitude, and I also got excited for the ... I mean, it's at least a dozen, but maybe more ... little cherry tomatoes I'm going to get when they finish ripening.

I have recently noticed that, as long as I can remember, I have felt like I can't slow down, like I can't take time for myself, that I should always be working or trying to work. I've been working on healing as much of my CPTSD as I can, and part of that includes doing my best to give myself permission to slow down, to take entire days or even weeks off, because I have earned it. It's such a struggle for me.

And that's where my garden is a metaphor again: it may not be full of blooming flowers or tons of vegetables right now, but that doesn't mean it isn't growing. Maybe it needs to be watered and fed today, and tomorrow, I can just walk through it, and enjoy it.

There once was a garden. It was not large and it was not extravagant, but it was green and strong and beautiful. It yielded herbs and vegetables. Though small, it fed the stomach and the heart of the gardener who tended it.

One day, a plague of mites came upon the garden. The infestation spread quickly. The green leaves withered, the proud stalks bent and fell, and in one fell swoop, the garden was nearly destroyed.

The gardener saw this and lamented. So much hard work wasted, so many lovely plants wilted. When the weeding and disposal work was done and the mites were finally eradicated, nearly the entire garden was gone. Only a few plants remained.

For days, the gardener sat and looked at the ravaged garden. The sight of so many empty pots and so much emptiness where there had been greenery and beauty was saddening. The gardener wondered if it was worth trying again so late in the season, if perhaps there was no point.

Then, one fine day, the sun came out and shone on one of the last remaining plants. It was a chili pepper plant which had somehow survived the mites mostly unharmed. The light glowed on the few healthy green leaves left in the garden. Despite everything, the plant was still tall and strong and showed signs of bearing fruit. 

The gardener saw this and thought, “Surely if there is one plant, there might one day be more. Surely if this one plant survived, all is not lost.” And so, the gardener got to work. Soil was turned, weeds were cleared, and new seeds were planted.

The gardener sat back and surveyed the scene. There was no new greenery yet. The new seeds would take time to grow. But where before there was fallow dirt and emptiness, the gardener now saw the potential of what could be.

The most important thing is not a lack of failure. It is a refusal to give up. 🌿

samusduran (Sadako with parachute)

tabakko (Sadako with two axes)

ethan8bit (Sadako minecraft water bucket)

KinoZukna (Sadako falling with the TV)

zerusant (Sadako with firefighters)

ELM054247878 (Sadako on diving board)

AnotherYojimbo (Sadako with gun)

the27poker (Sadako holding a ladder)

TheChuchuluku (Sadako in a well bucket)

kyruolic (Sadako family guy death pose)

dorkdragoon (GIF of Sadako hanging onto the TV)

and adding my personal favorite (created by liminalnua)

Letter from Samuel Clemens (Mark Twain) to Walt Whitman, 24 May 1889 on the occasion of Whitman’s birthday. (The entire letter is 8 pages).