It was the best of gardens; it was the worst of gardens. In true Dickens fashion, my springtime planting has turned into a tale of two gardens.
The last several years, my gardening has been a bust. Each spring, I spend a king’s ransom on seeds, hoping to grow my own, vine-ripened veggies rather than the ethylene-gassed, store-bought versions. But, my efforts have been a string of dismal failures. My tomato plants are always tall and scraggly, sprouting a few yellow blossoms that never give birth to a single Early Girl or Big Boy. My cucumbers, squash, carrots and beets haven’t fared any better.
So, this year I am making one final, heroic effort to have a garden that actually yields something edible. I am calling this garden The Last Ditch. If it isn’t successful, then I will give up on gardening and funnel my seed money into something more certain, like cryptocurrency.
Several weeks ago, the quest began. First, I made some necessary repairs to my dilapidated garden box that had, over time, succumbed to the elements. Next, I relocated it to a sunnier location, in between two azalea bushes that I imagined might attract pollinators. Then, I hauled a couple of wheelbarrow loads of rich humus from my compost pile and dumped them into the garden bed. On top of that, I poured several bags of expensive, specially formulated garden soil. After that, I added the best soil from my previous garden, sifting out all the leaves, twigs and grubs, one handful at a time. Finally, I planted the seedlings in carefully carved out beds, tucked them in with sprinkles of soil and gave them a few gentle pats.
The truth is that I have two garden boxes. The Last Ditch is only one. I planted another identical garden nearby but will leave it au naturel. I will cultivate and care for one; the other is on its own.
Weeks have passed now, and, as you might expect, it is a tale of two gardens. My Last Ditch garden, the one that I invested my time and energy in, is flourishing. I already have three small tomatoes and new blossoms each day. My pepper plants are bright green and have lots of buds. It is still too early to say much about the broccoli, but the leaves look healthy. The fallow garden, on the other hand, the one that I haven’t invested much time or energy in, doesn’t look so nice. There are no blossoms or buds, no tomatoes. An army of small weeds has invaded and is surrounding my plants.
It doesn’t take much imagination to guess how this drama, my tale of two gardens, will play out. The garden that I have cultivated and given my attention will grow. The garden that I leave, more or less, to itself will not.
Isn’t it the same way with life? Those goals and dreams, those projects and pursuits, those relationships and communities that we cultivate will grow. The ones that we don’t cultivate, that we leave on their own, will wither and eventually die from lack of attention.
So, this planting season, I am thinking more seriously about what “gardens” I am choosing to cultivate and which ones I am leaving au naturel. I am trying to make sure that I am investing my time and energy in what matters the most to me. I am taking inventory of how I spend the limited resources of my life and asking if that matches what I truly and deeply value. Am I cultivating the life that I want to grow? Or, am I pouring myself and my strength into things that I don’t really matter?
The gardens that we cultivate are the gardens that will grow. In the same way, the purposes and relationships that we choose to cultivate will also grow and flourish.
What gardens are you cultivating?
