I’m re-reading The Zen
of Gardening in the High and Arid West, by David Wann, a book I
traditionally revisit this time of year.
I suppose in re-reading this book each February, a part of me expects
I’ll wise up and throw in the rake, so to speak. Really, gardening in Colorado -- are you nuts? I ask myself at the beginning
of every snow-encrusted spring. Another year of frustration with drought,
arid soil, wind, and hail storms. Honestly, I don't know why I bother – I should just head to Whole Foods and buy organic
produce. It would be sooooo much cheaper
(and that is saying a lot!).
I’m my father’s daughter and I can’t help myself. This past weekend, Dad and I visited the
gardening center and he directed – really, he mandated -- which seeds I should
buy, along with the type of peat pots and plastic containers to hold the peat
pots.
“Ann, you don’t need to buy those expensive seed trays. You can just buy these cheap plastic trays to
hold your peat pots.”
“Dad, the ones I want are not that expensive. I like them better and they’re only $1.99 a
tray.”
“THESE plastic trays,” he said, as he vigorously waved several
of them high in the air while seated in his electric scooter, “are only $1.39
and you can reuse them next year. You’re
wasting your money. You don’t need those
fancy two dollar trays.”
Said with sternness. Said with resolve and determination. Like an old man wanting to be seen and heard again.
Of course, I didn’t need
any of these trays. I can grow seeds in sawed
off milk cartons for crying out loud. But I knew what it was I wanted. I’ve been gardening for many years now and while I'm by no means a master gardener, I
don’t consider myself a novice. Sigh. Dad
is 87 years old, there’s little over which he has control anymore, and he
hasn’t been able to plant seeds or mulch the soil for quite some time. The past several years, he’s lived
vicariously through my garden. Because Dad
was my original teacher, I decided to grant him agency in directing
me. It was a small sacrifice on my part
and one that made him happy.
I put down the $1.99 trays, took from him the $1.39 trays
that he still held high above his head, and placed them in the cart.
“Let’s go check out now, Dad,” I said.
He nodded his head in approval. I’m
still her Zen garden master.
My father is, after all, a product of the depression. Sixty-cent difference per seed tray is
significant in his mind. Maybe he has a
point. A tray is just a tray.
Part of becoming a Zen master in the garden is to understand
one’s own desires and motivations in cultivating the earth -- and then to
accept in the end, nature will have her way.
Gardening really is a reflection of life. I walk the garden beds during the spring months with dirty fingernails and no matter how much I scrape, there remains a light gray, half moon ridge of
soil deep under my nail beds, reminding me there's a cycle and rhythm to this place we call our temporary earthly home. In another
month, my 5’4” frame will be slamming a metal hoe into the hard, unforgiving Colorado ground, all in an effort to till in rich brown, stinky
manure -- the shit of life that in the end, stimulates growth. And when the first hailstorm
hits, as it surely will, I'll stare through my back windows, stomach sinking as
I witness tomato plants I nurtured from infancy get shredded, a reminder that life is fragile. But it is worth the hard work, worry and disappointment Colorado gardens require, because there is also the bounty. I'm happier witnessing the tender neck of a newborn seedling poking through the earth than I am in watching a good movie.
And so, it's time to start the tomato seeds. For the next three months, I’m turning my expensive, Ethan
Allen dining room table (truly, the only decent furniture I own) into a seed
lot.
Who else would subject her fine wood to peat pots, soil,
water and fertilizer but a committed gardener?
Every year during the first week in March my husband cringes. Mike stares in disbelief while witnessing me scoop
dirt into pots that line our fine dining room table, knowing it is only the
beginning of the season and there is so much more to come. The first year we lived together he took
action, working around me as he quickly placed plastic drapery under the seed
trays on the table. He hopes year
after year that he won’t have to remind me to do the same to protect the fine
wood he cherishes. I’m glad I have
him. He keeps me from destroying all of
our good stuff.
In late March and early April, it will be time. Time to get out doors and add bone meal and
horse manure to the garden beds. Time to
sow the peas and beans outside as well. Time to trim the bushes and hedges. Time to plant more indoor seeds into those little
peat pots sitting in plastic bins selected by Dad, lining the Ethan Allen table
protected by Mike. Spring is on its way,
even if Colorado stubbornly refuses to acknowledge this time of year.
So off I go this weekend, planting not just tomato seeds, but
also faith, hope, and love for the new season -- the ultimate state of being Zen. These three things, whether in the garden or
not.
