Backyard Miracles
I had a huge vegetable and flower garden.
During the COVID summer of 2020, my twenty-two-year-old daughter and I built a nuclear-bomb-proof fence around it, doors and all, to keep the critters and the deer where they belonged (i.e. not eating our tomatoes). I spent countless hours in this garden because what I deemed as miracles and life lessons happened daily.
You planted a seed, and weeks later…wah-lah!...I was feeding my family an abundance of fruits and vegetables (much to their dismay when cucumbers managed to sneak into EVERYTHING: salads, smoothies, probably pancakes if I’d pushed it). At the center of it all, I’d place a bouquet of flowers from the garden on the dinner table, our home’s most symbolic place, where stories of daily life were swapped and recorded.
Did you know it takes three years to establish asparagus? That means you have to sit and wait to eat it for THREE YEARS. (Honestly, who has that kind of patience? Certainly not me when I’m hungry.)
Did you know that many seeds require darkness to germinate? Or that there’s something called companion planting, where you strategically plant things side by side to deter pests, attract beneficial insects, and enhance growth and flavor? (Basically, matchmaking for vegetables.)
When my divorce was announced to my daughters (ages 19 and 22), the first thing my oldest daughter said when walking away from that conversation was this: “RIP, garden.”
Indeed, the loss of my bountiful long-cultivated garden felt like another stab to the heart. Rest in peace to each and every plant so carefully tended all these years. You were delicious.
Surprisingly, however, the essence of my cherished garden remains in me.
Just like all those seeds I planted that needed darkness to germinate, my divorce, too, cocooned me into a dark period of time before I could re-emerge. It has been a long and difficult process. Imagine the energy it takes to break into the light from the darkness. That too, describes divorce; no wonder I am so damn tired.
I can’t rush my grief, my sorrow, or even my new life; I must actively wait with as much patience as I can muster, to see how it will unfold.
Like asparagus, apparently, I too take three years to mature. I’m learning to trust the process and move through the seasons while garnering as much presence as I can muster. And, importantly, I am not “going it alone.”
In community, I am made whole. I could opt to go about divorce “solo-style” but in community (and with vulnerability) my growth and essence are enhanced. The punches don’t land as hard. Resources are uncovered. Laughter shows up just when most needed.
There is light; I can feel it and I am grateful.
Reflections:
Every seed has its own timeline, its own needs for light, dark, and companions. So do we. Divorce, endings, and beginnings alike remind us that growth takes both patience and care.
What seeds are you planting now? And what kind of “companions” might help you grow stronger, steadier, and even more flavorful along the way?