Gardens are an act of faith

In tending them, we are asked to be as generous with our hearts as possible.

I woke up at 5:30 AM and went straight to the garden. I am slowly converting my front yard to a haven for medicinal plants. It’s been — as with all gardening endeavours — a practice in allowing. Perhaps even an act of resistance to the belief that our yards should be for impeccably green grass and pretty, but useless, flowers. Instead of lush and abundant spaces for nurturance and connection.

I adore the plants I’ve put in my yard. I want them to succeed as much as I want myself to succeed. For us to grow equally – with and because of one another. Each plant is a reflection of my hope for the future. My desire to leave this plot a bit more green and alive than I found it. A desire to see things grow, and then to benefit from that growth.

Tending to plants is an act of faith. You give it the best you can. You try to make the best choices. And then you have to let go.  Sometimes the hardiest plants fail, and the most unexpected ones thrive beyond expectation. Much like life, you can’t always predict the ways in which your efforts will unfold. 

I’m regularly struck by how loving plants are, to us and the world around them. I am a deep believer that all things have a spirit – or whatever word evokes knowing there is something beyond just what we can see – plants are no different in that way. They can be playful, pushy, cheeky. They have personalities. Ultimately though, they have a desire to do what they are meant for. Without ever wondering if they are doing that well enough. Plants have a lot to teach us in that way. How to live without expectation. How to single-mindedly, and without apology, enjoy who, and what, you are meant for.  They also ask very little, if nothing, in return. Simply that we care for them with the same care we’d show another living thing. 

This is where it gets tricky. We humans have a really hard time with care — giving or receiving. We don't know how to show-up for ourselves or each other, let alone the bountiful natural world that surrounds us. We have forgotten that we too have a place in this world, and it isn’t contingent upon having a fancy title, or car, or house. We are simply asked to tend, to mend, and to be as generous with our hearts as possible. 

For us to get closer to what the plants have to offer, to teach us, we must release more of our control. We must step into a world that is unfamiliar (to many of us). One where words aren't currency, but listening is. We have to listen with a part of ourselves that has been dormant, because we were taught, long ago, it was worthless. When in fact it was priceless. It was exactly our connection with nature – our capacity to hear its voice – that allowed our earliest ancestors to survive. To know which plants were toxic. To follow the cues of the animals for unseen dangers. Without that reciprocal relationship we wouldn’t have survived. 

In truth, my garden is an act of love. It brings me closer to that deep quiet voice, and loving connection, with the world around me. And while I am tending for the plants, I find… on a whole…they are actually the ones tending me.