Firstly, I have to say I’m not a master gardener by any stretch. I have a bit of a green thumb in that I can generally keep plants alive and have learned to move them around over the years to help them thrive. More importantly, I have a soft spot for rescuing plants from the “ding and dent” section of my local nursery. In fact, I think it’s safe to say that about half of the plants in my yard were either saved from the compost bin at Swansons Nursery or acquired through garden swaps or from friends who were moving. At this point, I’ve lost track of the exact origins of many of them. I even have a hydrangea that is almost 4 feet tall now, which was once a tiny Christmas bloom a student gave me. It spent its first year indoors, then six months languishing by the trash, followed by a year on the left side of my garden, another year on the right, and now it’s thriving in its sunny central spot. I feel a real sense of accomplishment with that one!
What I love about gardening is that you don’t necessarily have to be an expert to reap the rewards of getting your hands in the soil. Today, the temperature climbed over 60 degrees, and I’m facing a rather significant winter cleanup before I can get to the “fun stuff.” However, the process of tending to something and watching it evolve is truly what captivates me. Like music, the garden is never truly finished and never perfect. Yet, it doesn’t need to be either of those things to be shared and enjoyed.
When I get my hands in the dirt, I find myself listening to the birds, the occasional car passing by, and the familiar sound of a neighbor’s voice drifting over the fence. I feel a deeper connection to the fact that I am part of something so much larger than myself. This resonates with the experience of writing, in that I will never stop learning from it and about it. Both gardening and writing connect me to a greater sense of purpose and don’t require perfection to be meaningful and shared with others.
