Maddy’s note: this is my 100th blog post! I had no idea when we started this humble project a few years back, where it would take us, and how much we would enjoy the process. Thanks to all you faithful readers, and a huge shout-out and thank you to my sister Annie, my talented editor.
This post was featured in the Theology of Home roundup on August 5, 2020.
Our humble garden has been changing the pace of our summers for four years now.
It started as a fun project that we took on when moving to the “country,” and has become something we look forward to each year. The first year was a lesson in many things, but mostly in eagerness. We enjoyed building the beds and planting a large multitude of different seeds and seedlings, only to realize we could overcrowd the plants, and that we had alot to learn about tending them into a fruitful harvest.
When I started my gardening habits four years ago, I was in a season of mild postpartum anxiety (PPA) and was generally overwhelmed. Adjusting from two to three kids was hard for me, and on top of that, we had made a big (wonderful) move to a more rural lifestyle, out of the crazy hustling pace of New York City. It was a lot of change, and I needed a full reset of the pace that I’d grown accustomed to. I knew that life could be simpler, slower, and richer in little ways, but I struggled to relinquish the cultural pressures of hustle, “more,” and “instant,” and my kids did too.
As we learned to tend our plants that first summer, I saw a shift in all of us. Of appreciation for simple daily miracles, of slowness, of wonder at the beauty of our world, and at our chance to cultivate a small corner of it.
Over these four summers, we’ve spent some beautifully memorable hours prepping, tending to it (though we’re very low-maintenance about it relative to some expert gardeners), and of course, harvesting, as we are now in July and August.
There are cherry tomatoes we eat like candy, herbs for nightly dinner enhancements (and cocktails, of course), and other things like cucumbers and zucchinis, eggplant, bell peppers, that appear almost overnight and miraculously…the growth can almost be seen if you watch closely. It reminds me of how it feels to watch my children, ages almost 10 to 18 months, growing before my eyes with the simple ingredients of summer: food, sunshine, and long hours of play.
In a culture that emphasizes and values consumption over all (think our overflowing homes, netflix subscriptions and screen consumption, constant need for new, different, the way social media fans the flames of need cycles), I know that our humble attempt to grow a garden is something that helps me pause. To lean towards other values. Of cultivation, care-taking, and a slower pace of life.
Why we garden: some thoughts
Gardening is an excellent form of the “unplugging” and resetting that we all need, especially in the midst of a year that has challenged everything about our sense of normalcy.
In the past, we, like many other families, have gone down the path of summertime crowding and the “consumption” of experiences like camps, activities at the library, and vacations away. I’m still sometimes guilty of falling prey to this, but the presence of our garden and the life flourishing right there in that patch, pulls me back to a more grounded reality, helping me relish staying home and living expansively within our spaces.
A book that I read last summer drove home this perspective from another angle. There are some nearly forgotten values that we would do well to build our lives on—sustainability, cultivation, peace, patience, and a long-term perspective. Cultivating these values leads us to make decisions that have positive ripples for years and decades to come.
I don’t know how much my kids will remember of all of this, or if they will cherish home grown foods or choose to plant a garden in their future lives, but I do know that they take so much pride in the veggies they are growing here today. They eat them willingly, proudly tasting the fruits of their labor, and I believe they have a deeper sense of wonder and appreciation for the earth and its fruits knowing the process that we go through, from seed to harvest.
Living in tune with nature’s rhythms
When we start our seeds in the frigid April air of Connecticut or buy our tiny seedlings from local farms in May, we are committing with hope and joy to the cycles of the year; the long hot days are soon to come.
And in August, when the cherry tomatoes are bursting with ripeness and we walk by and pop them in our mouths as we wander around the yard, it’s a reminder of the goodness of each season and of just how much the little things, simple and fleeting as they may seem, can truly mark and ground our lives. (Do you think we would appreciate juicy summer tomatoes the same way if every day was hot and tomato season was year round? I doubt it.)
When we get a sudden, strong, mid-afternoon summer storm, I sigh happily knowing that nature is doing its watering (even if it means we have to get creative with our rainy day plans). There’s a bigger life cycle at work that we’re tapping into. There’s something to be said for living with these seasonal rhythms that remind us, a time for everything and everything in its time.
This year, the four kids each had the chance to be responsible for designing and tending to one of the garden beds as we built. They enjoyed every aspect from moving soil, picking out seedlings from a local organic farm, and planting their selection of herbs, veggies and flowers. It was a process that kept us happily busy for long spring days, and now they burst with pride when picking veggies for dinner or showing yard guests the growth of their gardens.
Keeping it simple
All these plants really need are good soil, sun, and plentiful water—sometimes rain, sometimes overzealous hose soaks from the kids, or a gentle sprinkler mist, mid-day, that helps punctuate our routines and outdoor time.
The garden welcomes whatever attention it gets, and these plants are hard-wired to thrive. The other day my daughter was having a tough moment and I told her that plants grow and do well when we sing to them. Now I’ll see her pausing in the middle of her play to sing a short song to them (or catch the dragon fly that always linger there) before she goes back to her games.
It’s easy to over-complicate gardening, like anything in life. Or to focus on the results (I have a zucchini plant that is HUGE, but not producing fruit! Puzzling, but I’m going with it). Keeping our expectations for the garden project low has meant that we welcome and relish all the harvest we get, and we stay curious/learn from mishaps or things that don’t turn out as planned.
Creating Space
Turns out–we learned from our beginners’ eagerness the first year, you can definitely over-crowd a garden space, causing nothing to grow very well because each plant is competing for the key ingredients to a good life: sun, water, and soil nutrients.
When I’m pruning my tomato plants, cutting back the stems and growth that, while pretty, will keep the plant from flourishing and producing fruit, I’m struck by the metaphor for our lives. I’ve distilled this metaphor/life lesson into a phrase that’s become a guiding principle of my life (and of my signature life design course): “create space”. In order for the good stuff to flourish (and even before we may fully see it coming to fruit), we have to diligently prune and make room in our lives so that the good fruit can make itself known.
Cultivating patience
As anyone who knows me well can attest, patience is not my strong suit.
Sometimes my impatience leads to gardening catastrophe. Last year I had a great bunch of seeds germinating in my laundry room in trays, and I transplanted them just a wee bit too soon, before it was warm enough…they didn’t make it.
Fortunately, I also have kids who help me grow in this virtue. Tending to little ones (plants or humans) requires ample amounts of patience. Like when I’m teaching my toddler to enjoy watching (not tugging or touching) the green tomatoes, growing in size in June and July, and reminding him to wait until they are perfectly red (or purple) before we pick.
How much more we appreciate and savor the long awaited veggie when it’s finally ripe and ready for the sauce-pan or the salad bowl. And how much more our patience reminds us of the value of what we’re anticipating.
Accepting the times of hidden growth, and of times of blossoming
This year, in our new space, I’ve been marveling at watching the growth up close, and with plot twists. With late frosts and a beach trip, we planted everything pretty late, and the first few weeks it felt like we might never see growth. Between little seedlings trying to survive the elements, some pebbles lovingly thrown at them, sporadic watering, and a child’s attempt to “weed” them, our plantings just couldn’t catch a break. And since this was a new garden plot we didn’t know if it would be the winning combo of sun, shade and distance from roving animals.
But we kept doing all the steps, and trusting the process, more instinctively now, without knowing what kind of a bounty we would get.
Sure enough, after weeks of what felt like incremental growth came a week of heavy daily rains and an explosion of blooms, blossoms, fruits, and veggies just appearing, literally from day to day, before our eyes.
Nothing can prepare you for that sudden shift from nothing to something, from barrenness to fruit, from hopefulness to gratitude. But like everything in life, we have to accept that there are patient, long, dry periods, followed by the beautiful blossoms, fruits of prayer and work and living, that make it all worthwhile, and cause us to marvel: “how could all this bounty have come from such a tiny (hopeful) starting point?”
In the garden, as in life, it feels like a miracle, every time. We simply have to trust and stay present to the process as it unfolds.
Garden rhythms, a slower life
I’m someone that thrives on rituals or daily rhythms. Loose enough (room for adjustments and spontaneity), but structured nonetheless. Moms’ lives can feel a bit chaotic at times, so I look for predictable elements that I can plug into and offer as guideposts to the kids, especially on these long summer days.
Midday naps, morning work and chores, then afternoon simple outings, and predictable morning routines all work for me. Mornings are my best chance to fit in my necessary quiet, recharging moments like an early morning run or walk in nature—sneaking away to be alone with my thoughts.
The rituals of tending to a garden (water, weed, harvest), which I at first saw as yet another thing on the to-do list, has become embedded in how we do summer. When I turn on the hose for a midday garden watering, it often turns into sprinklers and water play. When I take the few minutes needed to weed a bit or harvest, I savor the long evening rays of the sun hitting the garden and their nearby swing, the kids play around me, or I help them harvest without destroying the plants in the process. The pre-dinner ritual is to plan our meal based on what’s ripe and ready to be eaten…and to grab the herbs, veggies and anything else we need to craft our meals.
We live a moment of gratitude for this gift of food growing right here, for our enjoyment.
It’s good to feel connected to the process and helpful to the growth of a garden, but not fully responsible. Like the “soul gardening” I’m doing with my littles.
I can’t imagine summer without these garden rhythms, and I pray that the slower pace of life, and the new rhythms we’ve welcomed (often reluctantly) in 2020, sink deeply into all of us, helping pull us out of our modern busyness & hustle, and reminding us of just how much goodness and beauty lies in timeless rituals of cultivation, care-taking and living in tune with nature.
