The Promise of a Garden
There is a certain promise in having a garden. It's a promise of life; that you will be able to feed your family and yourself with food grown in your land, by your hands. Planting a seed is a promise of the future, that you'll be around to harvest the fruit when it is ready to eat.
I have promises in my garden right now. There's the promise of a maybe pumpkin that sprouted up from some of my bunny's discarded food and is growing like a weed in my kitchen garden where there shouldn't be any squash at all. There's the tiny cucumber bloom I spied this evening while on my nightly walkthrough of my garden--the promise of pickles to come.
Right now, in my salad, I have the following delights: arugula, swiss chard, corn salad, beet leaves, nasturtiums, lettuce, violet leaves, edible podded peas, and bloody dock. If I wanted to, I could add baby beets and garlic scapes.
And also, since my potatoes are flowering, I have the promise of potatoes; lots of potatoes because almost all of them sprouted this year.
I have blackberries, and raspberries ripening. I have currants, and will even have a couple of blueberries this year. And tomatoes--I can't wait until the first tomato, fresh and warm from the garden.
My apple mint is almost four feet high in places; my candy mint is also growing strong. In the back, I have spearmint and chocolate mint and lavender and oregano and tarragon. There are baby sprouts of dill in a pot. And chives--lots of chives.
The promise of my garden is a sort of paradise among reality; a place to retire at the end of the day; instant supper, just pick your own; the healthiest food available within miles of my house.
I wouldn't think of not having a garden. It hasn't always been that way; growing up, I hated helping in the garden. I liked what it produced, but the upkeep; the planting and weeding and harvesting, was best left to someone else (in my unenlightened opinion.) I no longer feel that way.
To see my garden as I drive past my front yard to my driveway makes my spirits lift no matter how bad my day. And even if my day wasn't bad, but merely tolerable (as all days are when I am stuck inside and not out in my garden) my spirits are lifted nonetheless. Because my garden is a promise--a promise of things to come.
And I can't wait.
There is a certain promise in having a garden. It's a promise of life; that you will be able to feed your family and yourself with food grown in your land, by your hands. Planting a seed is a promise of the future, that you'll be around to harvest the fruit when it is ready to eat.
I have promises in my garden right now. There's the promise of a maybe pumpkin that sprouted up from some of my bunny's discarded food and is growing like a weed in my kitchen garden where there shouldn't be any squash at all. There's the tiny cucumber bloom I spied this evening while on my nightly walkthrough of my garden--the promise of pickles to come.
Right now, in my salad, I have the following delights: arugula, swiss chard, corn salad, beet leaves, nasturtiums, lettuce, violet leaves, edible podded peas, and bloody dock. If I wanted to, I could add baby beets and garlic scapes.
And also, since my potatoes are flowering, I have the promise of potatoes; lots of potatoes because almost all of them sprouted this year.
I have blackberries, and raspberries ripening. I have currants, and will even have a couple of blueberries this year. And tomatoes--I can't wait until the first tomato, fresh and warm from the garden.
My apple mint is almost four feet high in places; my candy mint is also growing strong. In the back, I have spearmint and chocolate mint and lavender and oregano and tarragon. There are baby sprouts of dill in a pot. And chives--lots of chives.
The promise of my garden is a sort of paradise among reality; a place to retire at the end of the day; instant supper, just pick your own; the healthiest food available within miles of my house.
I wouldn't think of not having a garden. It hasn't always been that way; growing up, I hated helping in the garden. I liked what it produced, but the upkeep; the planting and weeding and harvesting, was best left to someone else (in my unenlightened opinion.) I no longer feel that way.
To see my garden as I drive past my front yard to my driveway makes my spirits lift no matter how bad my day. And even if my day wasn't bad, but merely tolerable (as all days are when I am stuck inside and not out in my garden) my spirits are lifted nonetheless. Because my garden is a promise--a promise of things to come.
And I can't wait.
Comments
My grandparents lived in the city, but they bought a 'farm' in the country and had a garden. I remember picking carrots and onions and tomatoes when I was very small.