Spring, for me, means planting. On this topic, there is a treasure trove of technical and intuitive gardening information to discuss. While I’ve absorbed a fair share, I’m not tackling that beast for this entry. Instead, I feel compelled to share what I love most about gardening . . . drum roll please . . . the process.
Sure, gardening is a stress reliever, delivers good exercise, and enables you to feed delights to your family – both visual and culinary. And there’s an undeniable joy to smelling good earth after a rainstorm. But in a world of digital digression, exacerbated with moments of feeling stuck on a phantasmal merry-go-round, I am rescued from despair by a lesson from my garden: actions have outcomes. Seems obvious right? And yet, how often do I succumb to digital nirvana only to wake after an hour goes by and ask – what the hell just happened? I get this “dirty” feeling, a self-guilt far worse than the grimiest recess in my garden. Please avoid the lurid conclusions. Yes,
that Content is pervasive on the Internet, and hey, I’m a guy – happily married with children – but still a guy. Curiosity and an open mind are healthy human traits. So, putting aside those distractions, the feeling I’m struggling to convey is one of life passing me by while I run like a hamster on the treadmill.
There are online interactions that are worthy, humorous, social, informative . . . I acknowledge these positives. The problem is striking the balance. Our minds crave data. This is concurrently our great strength and our weakness. It takes effort and time to sort through a seemingly infinite field of electronic Content, and the few actions we take in the digital realm rarely have outcomes that we can predict, let alone recognize when they manifest. There is such a thing as too much connectivity, with too little impact. That largesse of other people’s stories, available with a finger swipe or keystroke, overwhelms us subconsciously, if not outright – paralysis by analysis. Or perhaps, it’s all too illusory, in that we think we have gotten somewhere only to glance askew at a mirror of empty dreams, and then turn away. For who among us truly wants to stare into that abyss?
Little steps, joined together, inevitably produce results. Rather than being a voyeur, I jump into the fray. I stand, stretch and walk outside. The fresh air awakens my spirit. My garden is neither fancy, nor expansive, and I won’t win any prizes. The chicken wire needs fixing in places, and I have to constantly excise rotten wood in the raised beds and stakes. At night, I scrub the black soil from under my nails. My muscles ache with a soreness that is satisfying. My girls have become experts in removing my splinters. My thoughts alight with compost, companion plantings, succession crops, pest remedies and seed experiments. The preparation began in December. In February, seeds were ordered and pulled from my reserves. Then as March arrived, the clean-up hit me in earnest. Those days were cold, the wind raw and the weeds tenacious. I had cuts, thorns and reptile skin on my hands. I could sand wood with my palm, and that touch certainly wasn’t going to win over my wife. Early April saw pruning and mulch, and with the soil finally ready, I savored our seed choices. The girls had their favorites, too. I visualized the growth patterns and light sources, checked the day and overnight temperatures, and noted the weather forecast. Perennials that we had labored over last year began budding. Those ferns that seemed dead and gone . . . their fiddlehead fronds continue unfurling today. In a week, we should have vegetable sprouts poking through to the sun.
Slowly, taking these myriad tiny strides, our garden comes into awareness. There will be outcomes, both good and unexpected. There’s no “easy button” to push. Gardening is patient work. But the process harkens to everything else we do in life – actions have outcomes – and sometimes when I’m lost, I rejoice in the comfort and motivation of that simple wisdom.
