We Are Growing Things This Year
A defiant Eastertide defense of hope
I have a romantic sense about what it takes to grow a vegetable garden. I did successfully tend one once, in the rich suburban soil of my childhood home, during a summer in between years of seminary. I had a full-time seminarian gig at the church where I grew up, I was training for a marathon, I was twenty-four years old and life was all potential.
It had been a rough year. My paternal grandmother died, then my uncle, then my maternal grandmother. Death abounded. I had surgery for endometriosis, a condition I had first been diagnosed with at age 15, where growth is the problem: uterine lining tissue, the endometrium, grows in places it’s not supposed to be. The solution is to burn it off, cauterizing the tissue and killing the rogue cells. Death, maybe leading to new life; part of the reason for treatment is to preserve fertility. The apartment my two friends and I rented from a New Haven slumlord had caught fire during winter finals, burning through the ceiling in my room and claiming my shoes and books, some of my clothes, my first-ever stole, and a lot of my mojo.
I came home that summer trying to channel the “Good Vibes Only” life, speaking often with church members about how grateful I was for my family and my seminary community and my friends. But “Good Vibes Only” turns out to be pretty crappy theology, and the truth was, I had some grieving to do.
On Mother’s Day, I headed to the garden center with barely half a plan. I bought two raised bed kits and a bunch of seedings: kale and green beans and peppers and tomatoes. Cucumbers, which I’d come to regret. A handful of herbs in pots on the back deck. That afternoon, I spent four hours building the raised beds and filling them with potting soil and gently, gingerly settling each vegetable into its proper place. My mother was thrilled. Best Mother’s Day gift ever, she said.
Each morning I awoke before the sun to run or lift weights, preparing my body for its upcoming marathon. Then, I filled the watering can and carefully made my way around the herb pots and raised beds, making sure each plot was watered but not overly so. I often went through a second time after work, if it was a hot day. I took a week away to visit my partner in Ireland and I made sure to secure plant caretakers. In these simple acts of tending, my garden thrived. I had kale for my eggs each morning and more for chips and salads and stew. My mom loved the sweet peppers and plump green beans that seemed to ripen a dozen a day. The cucumbers absolutely took over the place, growing out of their raised bed and into the second one, then all over the garden. We gifted them to anyone who’d take them. I made quick pickles but never managed the full canning process. Cucumbers rotted in the garden, but not too many.
Every summer after that, I swore I’d do it again. But then we had two summers in a downtown apartment complex in Des Moines with no space for growing things. And then we lived in a tiny 500-square-foot apartment in St. Paul that we didn’t want to stay in too long, so we didn’t put down roots, literal or figurative. And then we bought our house and I swore I would not only plant a vegetable garden, but a cherry tree, which blossom right around our wedding anniversary up here. But each year there was something. That first summer, I got really sick with probably influenza and maybe Lyme disease and was knocked out for weeks. The second summer, I was pregnant with my August baby and garden work was not in the cards. The third summer, we had an infant with lots of medical needs and not a ton of head space for anything besides her care. The fourth summer was the pandemic with no childcare and a toddler. The fifth summer we had our June baby.
And the sixth summer, the one that was supposed to be the one, I became a stay-at-home mom. Our kids were healthier than when they were in daycare, but they were also home. All. The. Time. All the projects I thought I’d get done without a day job were shoved aside for playground trips and craft projects and so much more baking soda and vinegar than I’d ever expected. I also found myself serving as medical care coordinator as my daughter went through multiple evaluative processes, my son was diagnosed with the same chronic condition as my daughter plus a gross motor and a speech delay, and numerous “minor” surgical procedures were performed on each child. There was no garden.
Becoming a pastor, and then becoming a homeowner, and then becoming a mom, and then becoming a post-pandemic being have all been these incredible transformations. I am not alone in any of this, I know. I am fond of the caterpillar-to-butterfly transformation metaphor where you have to become a ball of goo before you can spread your wings and show off your dazzling new digs. My kids have this book called The Very Impatient Caterpillar where the title character can’t wait the two weeks it takes to fully metamorphose - honestly, relatable, little dude - and tries to emerge with half a wing, covered in slime. That’s kind of how I feel right now. All of these incredible transformations feel sort of incomplete. Kudos to those of you flying around like butterflies, more power to you, but I wonder how many part-caterpillar, part-butterfly, part-goo people there are limping around like me. More than I realize, probably.
About six months ago, roughly six months into my tenure as a stay-at-home mom, I realized quitting my job hadn’t solved all my problems. Our house was still a mess; I was still behind on my email; we still didn’t have a vegetable garden. I fell into a deep nihilistic state. What was the point of any of this, if I was going to be shitty at everything that mattered no matter what?
But it’s Eastertide, the season of new life. And it’s also this magical time where things are getting a little easier. We got into the Mayo Clinic for EoE care for the kids, lifting a big logistical burden from my shoulders. The kids are walking well (!), eating well (!!), thriving in school, playing with each other, and filled with joy (and also chaos and tantrums but that’s par for the course). There might be a butterfly in here after all.
So this year, in defiance of all my previous failures, and in the face of tough meteorological odds and a rabbit family living in our backyard, and in anticipation of more challenges ahead, we are growing things. We built the raised beds this morning. We added the potting soil we had. Tomorrow we get the seedlings and the remaining potting soil. We are growing kale, broccoli, beets, peas, carrots, and cucumbers (probably against my better judgment, but I’ll be careful this time). And we’re adding a row of sunflowers out front, just for fun. We are growing things this year, and I can’t wait to see what comes up.
