For those of you who don't know, the past year has been an incredibly difficult one for me. I won't get into the hows or whys, but I've known for a long time that I would have to move. However, moving meant I would have to give up the home I'd lived in for more than a decade. The only home two of my children have ever known and the only one that my oldest remembers. Unlike some parents who try to keep a museum-quality home, I actually delight in the little mishaps my children leave behind. The tiny nicks on the walls, slight stains of color from crayon marks of long ago, the lines I drew on the trim by a door to mark their height as they grew. Leaving that behind was going to be hard.
In brighter times, I took up gardening. A lot of it had to do with the apocalypse that was scheduled for 2012. I didn't really think it was coming, but I liked the idea of self-sufficiency, so I started cracking books. The Arizona soil is difficult, to say the least, but I spend the better part of a year composting, conditioning it, and removing each tiny pebble by hand to create a good-sized starter plot. I planned my first two crops very carefully, noting which plants would germinate here, which ones grew well together (companion planting) and exactly when to sow the seeds. I also tucked plants in every nook and cranny throughout the yard, researching what kind of light and water each would need. We have two growing seasons, so I managed two crops the first year and the kids and I enjoyed picking tomatoes beans, and peas right from the garden and eating them on the spot. Between the foraging and the fact that my youngest was convinced tomatoes were balls, very little ever made it to the dinner table. I was ok with that, though. I felt connected to my kids, to the earth, and to my ancestors, who were all farmers and gardeners.
But, life happens, and it became apparent that my move was imminent. I struggled with the decision to plant the next crop. The kids really wanted to, so I mostly let them toss seeds wherever they saw fit. I didn't plan or look at the calendar. I just let the little ones do their thing and enjoyed the moment, expecting to be gone if and when the harvest was ready. However, we were still in the house when the plants matured, and they did quite well, despite the neglect. The kids were proud of their efforts and told everyone they met about what they had grown.
Of course, by the time the next planting season came, I was certain there would be no harvest. There had been a water leak and all the water to the yard had been shut off. It was a dust bowl. All my efforts to condition the soil were wasted, the garden filled with dead weeds. I also knew that there was no way I'd still be in my home, even if I managed to put things right. So, I left it. Every time I walked outside, I'd look at the barren dirt and think of the memories the kids and I made. How they'd chase after lizards and butterflies and then race excitedly throughout the yard looking for the latest sprout, the freshest berry, or the newest treasure that had ripened. I knew I'd be planting a garden at my new home, wherever that might be.
The seasons passed, and the inevitable came. I searched for a new home far and wide and was rejected repeatedly. Apparently, freelance workers aren't reliable when it comes to mortgages or paying rent, so they thought. By the end of it, I was turned down by close to 100 places. They didn't care if I could deliver six months of rent at once or even pay the lease outright for a year. I tried everything. My only choice, then, was to stay put and find a way to make my existing home work.
I made a ton of home repairs and found a wonderful roommate. I never made it to the back yard, though. In fact, I still haven't fixed the leak, and the water remains shut off. But, during the time while I was doing my repairs and while my roommate was moving in and getting settled, we had massive rains and flooding. Thankfully, there was no flood damage to my home, but a peculiar thing happened. Despite the neglect, the overall lack of water, the fact that the soil should have had no nutrients left at all, a garden that I had never planted, began to grow.
Gardens, just like people, are resilient. The grape vines that should be dead, climbed my house and are taller than I am. The watermelon vines that were planted more than a a year ago, by children simply tossing the seeds about, now hosts melons more than a foot long. The garden, which was no more than dry dust, is lush with squash plants and numerous varieties of tomato vines. Every corner of my yard has come to life again, blackberry bushes, beans, peas, and more.
Sometimes, even the seeds we sow and neglect, can bring forth a wonderful bounty, whether they're planted in life, or a garden.
