Most of the raw beauty that goes into a garden is work you’ll never see. In my garden I never seem to be able to walk through without a bucket and clippers, picking up dead leaves and sticks, or replanting a plant that heaved out of the soil over the winter.
Years ago, I noticed I was getting bouts of lightheadedness when I worked out there, so during my yearly physical, I ask my doctor about it.
“What exactly do you do in your garden?” He asked.
I kind of knew by his question he’d probably never planted anything in his life, so I tried to give him a quick rundown of what work in a garden entailed.
“So, it sounds like you are up and down a lot, changing positions, leaning, twisting, that kind of thing. Do I hear that right?”
“Yes,” I answered, “but…”
“And how many times would you say you lean over to pick something up?”
“Well,” I hesitated, “maybe five hundred times.”
“Oh, really? Ok,” he said sitting down next to me on a stool. “So, here’s what happens. Your heart is pumping blood in a normal pattern as you work, and then you lean over, and it has to change and pump blood a different way as your brain reorients itself, and if you lean hard to the right, then you brain tells it to pump more over that way and so on as you change positions. See what I mean? After ten minutes of that back and forth, your brain has no idea where to send the blood, and it’s getting the shaft on the blood flow and oxygen.”
“Doc, I’m…I’m… getting light-headed just thinking about it,” I stammered.
Still, walking out of his office, I knew that those awkward positions were the name of the game in a garden – a lot of maintenance which translates to deep-knee-bends and squats of one form or another. In fact, most of what we see in a picturesque garden has a lot of sweat equity poured into the soil and under the soil that you’ll never see on top of the soil.
For example, in one area of mine just outside my back door, I have a bed of low-growing junipers where I mistakenly planted some bulbs that come up every year now. That is all fine and dandy and garden-esque, but the ugly foliage hangs out like strong perfume for about a month longer. Normally, one would leave the greenery to gather energy for next years’ crop, but those bulbs would take over, so I get a bit lightheaded, burn up a little chicken fat and cut the foliage down right away.
Every season, I think the lesson I re-learn is that most of the tasks that are going to be required of me in the wildness are rather mundane, requiring a good dose of patience and even reverence for the commonplace. And I think this is true of life as well. To get to the final round of knockout roses, we need be willing to get down and dirty with the uneventful and tedium of daily chores, weed out what isn’t necessary and give the seeds a chance to take root. The beauty of it is that those tasks that seem burdensome, even a waste of time, begin to build a routine that gives our life purpose and a sense of service.
Walla-A! Our lightheadedness disappears and the blood starts flowing again!
Old gardeners have a reputation for virtually living in their gardens, plowing and furrowing all their life and taking care of their garden plots like newborn babies. In fact, they spent so much time out there mulling around, poking at this or that, fighting insects, watering, pruning and the like, that they came to be seen in the neighborhood as a kind of figurehead, sort of like a composted version of the Statue of Liberty, carrot stick held high to greet the tired and “huddled masses yearning to breathe free.”
I have heard, or maybe I saw it in a movie – not sure – of an enlightened granny gardener who rose before the sun, put on her bib overalls and Land’s End rubber boots and headed out to work every morning in her vegetable patch. There, ankle deep in kale and beet roots, she reveled in nature’s applause until one day when she looked out and saw Glory and very quietly leaned over on their hoe and passed away, standing up.
It was such a peaceful way to go. For her family, it was as if she died in her sleep. One minute the wise grandmother was doing what she loved the most, mending wire supports and taking in the intricacies of the cosmos like a sage and the next minute she was talking to Jesus about whether to plant soybeans or sweet peas on Heaven’s back forty. Really, she was living her best life, growing a tomato as big as a cantaloupe, gathering the kind of knowledge one gets only by working season after season in tune with nature, exacting beauty from the faith they put into their handfuls of tiny seeds.
Gardener stories like these let us know that those that work the land have a deep love to be out there working the soil. The tasks and chores may be an extension to the very first story told in the Bible, that of a garden we read, that was tended to by the Lord himself, “with all sorts of beautiful trees.” There was work to be tended to also in the garden when grandmother passed on, and she went, it was said, just as the sun came over the horizon, when the humidity was low and the cool air was rising up off the dew.
Now, with this latest trend leaning towards letting a garden take care of itself, gardeners of the future will not go outside to look for chores. They will not pull weeds or put up a scarecrow or read labels on plants that say plant in partial shade. The new gardener will simply get in a truck and fly down the inside lane of a super-highway, broadcasting wildflowers into the median, throwing caution to the wind. They will let the earth take care of itself and become stewards of the newest trend, the latest thing, and lose the tried and true.
To which I say, NO THANK YOU. No thank you to any of that and yes to piddling endlessly in the planting seasons of our Springs and Summers. We need to bestow honor to our gardener troops out there who spend countless hours doing the mundane, tireless jobs no one else wants to do. Let’s get our stories in line here, before the jobs pile up and get out of control, while we still have a chance to shore up our edges, trim the dead out from the winter and toil under the cool of the dew before the sun comes up.
It's going to mean some dedication, a lot of sore muscles and maybe some Icey-Hot to get us back up in the morning, and it’ll mean a lot of leaning over and mixing up our blood flow getting back up again over and over, and for me anyway, a bit of lightheadedness. This kind of work may not win you a trophy or a ribbon. In your garden, you aren’t going to hear anything loud like the battle cry Remember the Alamo! You’ll work next to the robins who are picking at the newly turned soil and then catch the sound of some wisdoms floating along with the oxygen in your brain.
Still, I’d keep a rake nearby to lean on just in case. You’ll be tipping towards soil that is rich and worked to the bone and you’ll be disciplined and diligent, and wise like a sage. Nothing good comes out of a garden that isn’t prepared. It’s the work you don’t see that makes it beautiful and overflowing, and it comes, and goes, with the territory.