Why I Choose to Garden

I resisted gardening. As a teen, I wanted to play sports and hang with my friends, not pick strawberries or dig up weeds. (Sorry, Dad. In hindsight, that garden was really great.) As an adult, while my closest friends found contentment in their gardens, I held back. I told myself the story that gardening wasn't for me. My main points of contention: I would start from scratch and make mistakes (perhaps look like an idiot); my yard is huge and the project too big; I'd get hot, sweaty, and dirty (and yet not get a workout--or so was my thinking at the time). Basically, I was stuck in a cycle of perfectionism; I didn't want to try something if I might fail. (Actually, I didn't want to try something unless I knew I'd excel. That was a very constricted place to live.)

But I gained more life tools and experiences, and in that process I gained more wisdom and confidence. Then I didn't mind making mistakes--in fact, that's where I learn the most. Five years ago I began my garden experiment, which continues today. Now I receive great fulfillment and restoration while digging in the dirt. All I needed to do was try.

The Top Ten Reasons Why I Garden:

10. I get to play in the dirt. This brings out my inner-child--the younger one, not the teen that didn't like pulling weeds.

9. I'm surrounded by beauty. Oh, how I love flowers: love the plants, love the buds, love the blooms, love the colors.

8. I get practice with a long-term project. My ego tells me everything must be done at once, but gardening begs for small yearly changes that create big change over the long haul. It's a remarkable lesson.

7. I feel empowered. Digging a bed, moving piles of dirt, dealing with tree roots--these all make me feel strong and alive.

6. I eat freshly-picked tomatoes. The taste of a ripe, just-picked tomato is mind blowing.

5. I'm in nature. No need to travel to a breath-taking state park; I only need enter the backyard and I'm in tune with the natural world.

4. I'm filled with wonder. The plants can grow inches in a single day--how cool is that? And it's only the beginning.

3. I learn. Each year I learn something new just by trying something new--sometimes it works out, sometimes it doesn't. And it's all okay.

2. I'm in the moment. When I dig in the dirt, I simply dig; my monkey mind is momentarily quieted.

1. I better understand impermanence. Change is hard, yet life is full of change and uncertainty. The world is in flux. The less I resist this notion, the less I suffer. In gardening I clearly see my attachment to plants: when the weather or rabbits destroy something I've planted, I'm really sad. But lingering in that upset--or trying to control the uncontrollable--adds suffering. Bunnies will eat the plants I just put in the ground. (Dammit.) That's life. It's hard, but it's life. So I try to work with impermanence--some days are better than others.

New Territory

Today is the first day of my new path. It's spring break at Lawrence, but my formal commitments are over. Now I get to enjoy--enjoy the end-of-year celebrations, gradually clear out my office, ponder new professions, and let my creative juices fly. So how did my first day of freedom begin? By sleeping until 8:45. The last few days, I've been able to linger in bed, catching up on needed rest. Perhaps it's the grayness or the time change or my general exhaustion, but it feels good to sleep in. (I joked with Mark that I'm re-entering my teenage years. My new life will be sleeping until noon, hanging with friends, and sneering at chores.)

In anticipation of an open day, I made leaven last night. This morning I mixed the bread ingredients and gradually kneaded the loaf over 3 hours. And during that 3 hours I lost time--what did I actually do? I think I did some email, commented on some Flickr photos, took photographs, drank tea, ate breakfast. Wow, 3 hours goes quickly. The rest of my day: dentist appointment, walk to the Y, workout, stop at Green Gecko for groceries (oh, the leisure of not knowing what I'll cook until that very day), shovel snow (mild crankiness), bake bread, do laundry, make vacation to-do list (woe is me), welcome Mark home, make yummy pizza, share stories with Mark, and talk with my nephew about his latest volleyball games.

In reflection, it was a lovely first day of something new. And I'm glad I took time to make bread. The bread-making process is nurturing and mindful and fulfilling. The story of me is still unfolding, but here's the story of my bread: