The gardening cult puzzles some folks. But for members, digging our hands in the earth helps us to make peace with—or take a rest from—grappling with life’s mysteries.
The man I’ve lived with for nearly fifteen years taught me about the comfort of gardening when my father died eleven years ago; the garden was the only place to release memories of his suffering. Through nature, my partner has reminded me about the undeniable cycle of life.
Even my father, who scrubbed his nails from tire dirt after a hard day’s work rather than gardening soil, accepted the fundamentals of life. When we planted my grandmother back in the earth, he murmured, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” I walked quietly by his side, doubly stricken by his ashen face.
Gardening is the great equalizer.
In the chill of winter mornings, I’ve stumbled to our basement, filling pots as my promise for the following months. We’ve watched the seedlings poke their heads up, slowly returning me to spring, my natural set point.
Several years ago before the first crocus bloomed, my mom passed out around midnight, trying to reach her bed. Even though she split her head open and had a swollen mask of bruises, she came to and reached the phone in time. She was determined, after a week in the ICU and a month of slow healing, to right herself like an upside-down bulb, instinctively flipping itself over to reach for the sun.
