Fits and Starts

I still can't do my "in the zone" zen gardening essay because I need another "in the zone" zen gardening day to refresh my memory, the kind when I fall into bed and am asleep already as I roll onto my side, wake up feeling every muscle ache, individually and collectively. Maybe, with a little bit of luck, tomorrow.

But I did garden today, with Lily, leading me to some other kinds of thoughts on gardening, which is still--clearly--taking up quite a bit of mental space for me these days. We went to the gardening center to buy some seedlings for the vegetable and herb gardens, the bins at the bottom of the porch steps and the hanging planters on the porch. Lily wanted to plant a "special pot" for the porch, so she was on the lookout for "flowers in my favorite color," which these days is red.

As we pushed the cart around, and I kept my eye out for the things I knew I was looking for, Lily's eye was drawn to just about everything else: those fuzzy flowers in bright colors that look like caterpillars on stems, fledgling grape vines with tiny little fledgling grapes, and--as I surveyed the all-important, eye-level tomato offerings--the fruits and vegetables closer to the ground, on the less desirable shelves: cantaloupe, collards, and corn.

What's this? she asked about the corn, which I had naively tried to grow my first year in this house, until I realized that for the three or four stunted, bird-pecked, worm-mauled mini ears I ended up with, I could have had more time to enjoy the perfect ones the working farm 500 feet up the street grows and sells on the side of the road, close enough so I can put a pot of water on the stove and be back with the corn before it boils.

Corn, I said, about to give my corn spiel, when I saw her face as she fingered the little grass-like shoots. We had just bought some corn on the cob from Florida at the grocery store (which looked pretty good, in spite of its travels), and I knew she was trying to imagine how these measly little shoots could possibly produce those meaty yellow cobs.

By the time we reached the register my cart was full of all kinds of things I'd sworn off in the past: melons that have a tendency to take over the garden with their unruly vines, showy annuals that make me feel wasteful, hot peppers in all manner of unlikely shapes and colors that I will never eat.

When we got home, Lily ran immediately to the shed to get her little wheelbarrow, shovel and rake. I'm ready to plant, she shouted as she barrelled toward me and our collection of motley seedlings. Although she has planted with me the last two summers, it has never been with this level of enthusiasm or interest. I had to promise her more for tomorrow to get her to come in for bed.

This year's garden may not be my shining sea of heirloom tomatoes, neat rows of unusual salad greens and my beloved Chioggia beets, which I couldn't find and hadn't ordered. To tell you the truth, I'm not sure what it's going to look like. But it won't be just mine, either.

Ownership. It's a beautiful thing.

Tonight, Lily and I both will sleep with soil ground under our fingernails and satisfied, anticipatory smiles on our faces. After all, what is gardening but a gritty and tangible manifestation of hope?