By Peggy Otwell
I have been a gardener for almost my entire life. As a child, my dad taught me to turn the soil in our modest vegetable garden when I was only six. The long-handled shovel was taller than I, and the Pennsylvania soil was hard clay. But I diligently turned that bed until it was something I could stand back from and be proud of. I knew that this first step was the beginning of many others to follow. And that those steps would end with a bountiful harvest of delicious, juicy tomatoes, tasty zucchini, sweet green peppers, and fresh-cut flowers for the table. .
One year, I asked to plant carrots because I loved a particular childhood song that I played on my little record player, “The Carrot Song.” It started with the lyrics, “Carrots grow from carrot seeds. I watered them and pulled the weeds. Carrots grow from carrot seeds.” All these years later, I can recall the boy’s voice who sang that song, and that inspired me to grow carrots.
My dad explained to me that the soil in our garden bed wasn’t good for growing carrots. He said they would not grow long and straight in the hard clay soil. But I insisted, and planted the seeds, watered them, and waited for them to sprout with great anticipation. Sure enough, the green fronds of the carrots appeared, and I tended them with great care, pulling the weeds, and watering them faithfully.
When it came time to harvest the vegetables, my carrot tops were tall, healthy, and strong. My dad showed me how to dig around them gently and helped me to pull them up from the ground. To my chagrin, they were all only about four inches long, and twisted into gnarly shapes. Clearly, they had struggled! But my dad said, “Good job!” We took them in that afternoon and at dinnertime that evening dad told my sisters and mom that, thanks to me, we had fresh carrots for dinner that night!
Gardening has been my meditation, my solace, my delight, and a steadfast companion for over 60 years now. In each place I have lived, I have turned the soil, watered seeds and plants, and have watched my gardens grow. When I plant or weed, I meditate. I like this solitary tending. It never feels like work to me. It is a time I spend in silence and solitude. A time when thoughts and memories arise freely, like the warm, pungent scent of the soil in my hands as I work and pull the weeds. During Covid, gardening helped me find meaning and purpose in the simple act of digging the soil, at a time when many other activities became impossible to do. My love of solitude and silence deepened, and my garden beds became my companions. I learned to love their individuality, and to read their strengths and weaknesses in more detail.
When I am in my garden now, I am often reminded that life is just another form of gardening. We plant seeds in our communities with ideas of kindness and love, tend to them as they grow, and hope for a good outcome. Sometimes those seeds of kindness flourish. At other times, they take and more twisted path, or falter— for many reasons. But each seed planted and each effort made, has its purpose; needs our love and attention. In a few instances, those ideas need more than an ample amount of problem solving—times when we need to “dig in.” And with experience, we learn that sometimes we need to let go.
Author’s Note: Pictured attached is this year’s new garden, in the front yard of my house. I like this new garden so much because I can share its beauty with everyone who passes by: neighbors, students, workmen, delivery people, the mailman. Hopefully, their day becomes just a little more beautiful because of it.