Last year, I wrote a column entitled “Pruning and possibility” about the physical act of pruning the trees in my yard as well as things I spend energy on in my life. The goal was to let the light in literally and figuratively. Now in this new light-filled season, I find myself doing the opposite – planting for possibility.
The crowds at area garden centers indicate I’m not alone in the literal endeavor of planting. My patio containers are all filled — abundant with purple, orange, green, yellow. And I’ve put in lettuce, sugar snaps, broccoli, carrots, radishes, tomatoes, peppers and cukes in my small raised bed.
Now I water, watch and wait.
Will I have better luck with tomatoes this year, having planted the seedlings’ stems deeper in the soil, as one guide suggested? Will the bunnies stay away having heard the rumors that the mean lady in their neighborhood yelled at the one found nibbling on lettuce last year? (Ah the reaches of Catholic guilt, I still feel bad for my sharp “get out of there bunny” tone.)
But for now, the bed is full and each plant and flower seems a perfect promise. As Michael Pollan wrote,”Unharvested, the garden bristled with possibility.”
When asked why we choose to live in New England, many of us cite the change of seasons. And I do wonder if year-round residents in say, Florida or Arizona, feel an absence, a lack, without the renewing energy of spring? In winter, I’m envious of their social media pictures of the deep green fronds of the palm tree. But is there any greater sight than the steady, slow unfolding of bright green leaves on a maple tree in spring?
As each unclenches, doesn’t it feel like your own heart is unclenching as well?
I’m planting new habits and activities in my life this spring, too. An online course I took this winter encouraged a daily or almost daily writing practice of no more than two hours. As one who has struggled with the discipline and at times loneliness of writing regularly, the limit of two hours feels doable. My proclivity toward procrastination dispatched for now, I find myself many mornings at my desk. Is there something you’ve been putting off that might seem more achievable with the addition of a modest time restriction?
Occupying and exercising my mind outside of work used to consist of two main pleasures — reading and crossword puzzles. This season I’ve added mahjongg to my repertoire. I was intimidated at first by the rules and the suits and the building of hands aligned with an annual play card that is so anticipated I’m told people wait by their mail boxes for its delivery. The best part about the game besides the company of other women? I can’t think of another thing outside the movement of the tiles. All worries recede in the passing of the Charleston. If, like me, you are hesitant to start, check out Ilovemahj.com for a free trial to build your skills, and learn how to identify a Krak from a Bam.
The garden offers similar respite as Mary Oliver deeply understood. In her poem, “The Gardner,” she writes, “Have I lived enough? Have I loved enough? Have I considered Right Action enough, have I come to any conclusions? Have I experienced happiness with sufficient gratitude? Have I endured loneliness with grace? I say this, or perhaps I’m just thinking it.
Actually, I probably think too much. Then I step out into the garden, where the gardener, who is said to be a simple man, is tending his children, the roses.”
With Memorial Day behind us, summer looms. I worry it will go by too fast. Like Oliver’s narrator, I probably think too much. So instead, I’ll step out into the garden knowing it can’t be rushed. Its promise of a harvest is enough, its promise of possibility.
