Every spring, for the last fifteen years, we have planted a garden.  In recent years, much of this has fallen to our friends, Greg and Amber, who share in the spoils of chard, kale, carrots, beets, garlic, lettuce and berries of all kinds.  But we all do our small part.  Mine is weeding, which I find satisfying, like cleaning.  The kids are tasked in the spring with the daily watering of starts.  My husband, Johnny, an engineer at heart, is off creating new spaces on our eleven-acre property to be enjoyed.  Amber, the animal whisperer, sees to the sheep, and Greg is our resident green thumb. 

When I look out at the garden from our porch, bursting with blossom and shoot, foliage mounded up and overflowing its bounds like some caricature of abundance, I am reminded of the relationship between effort and satisfaction. 

We value what we nurture.

But more than that, our nurturing is a kind of partnership with the unknown.  We till the soil while it is still barren.  We plant seeds, impossibly small.  Specks, flakes, like particles of dust — how could these prove to be the genesis of bounty, excess, beauty, joy?  Into the dirt they go.  The mundane world shrugs, yawns as we go about our business.  Watering, pruning, raking the bare earth, we perform our ridiculous rites under a leaden sky, ablutions that seem sheer superstition.  For what evidence have we that the crop will sprout?  Who are we to create something from nothing, to take up our partnership with Life?  Life, that has granted us the very existence that makes possible our partnership and toil?

The fledgling green struggles upwards toward the light.

Perhaps this is the way of all things that have the power to provide true sustenance.  They have their origin in the improbable, the hidden, and require first faith and then effort, faith’s handmaiden, to manifest.  Our modern world promises to fulfill our every whim with the click of a key, the acquisition of yet another object we don’t need, manufactured at a discount in some far off land, subsidized with human suffering and environmental degradation, and engineered to fail, for its true function is not to fulfill a need, nor to express the ineffable, but to realize a profit.  Destined for the landfill, our newest acquisition gets an early start, practices being trash in the living room, the den, the patio where it can degrade in sunshine its plastic veneer was never designed to withstand.  We reap the harvest of a garbage society; the landfill grows by leaps and bounds, but unlike my garden it will not return to the earth for thousands of years. 

I’m no better than the rest.

But I’m interested.  I notice.  I check the easiest impulse, provide that breath of a moment that allows it to dissipate, like the tick of a nervous condition.  I dig a little deeper in myself, for I sense true soil.  Even if the blight should take my harvest, it is secure, for the effort itself is the fruit of my labors.  I supply what I reap: my ministrations nurture me, long before their true object blooms.  I picture gardens in the winter wastes — and then, I plant my seed.