Abundance and Enough

A garden teaches. It teaches failure and patience. The asparagus failed—miserably. The few sprigs that survived weren’t enough to feed anyone…well; maybe, hope for next year, but there’s so much to consider about replanting what didn’t grow. It was an experiment. Cost, time, effort and the space must factor in. Our garden is limited and we try to get the most out each little inch. We feed many with our little 20 x 30-foot garden. Four families, plus neighbors.

Years ago, the garden was more than twice that size, but I canned and put by a lot more than I do now. Over fifty-two bottles each of beans, potatoes, carrots, grape, apple and apricot juice, bushels of pears, peaches and apple pie filling. We were younger and we had captive help. Nothing teaches life lessons better than a garden and I took full advantage with my kids. They helped.

But we had enough and abundance. We have it still. Nothing is quite like going to the garden for ingredients for your dinner.
So, it was with sadness we pulled the tattered tomato plants, dug the carrots and scallions, cut the lettuce, maybe, for the last time. And picked the sugar snap peas. None of those got to the table though. I popped each fat green pod straight into my greedy mouth. The next day we rototilled the garden and raked a patch for garlic.

Garlic is a crop of complete faith and hope. Planted at the changing season with the crisp air nipping at your heels, but done (anyway the way I find best) on bended knee, close to the dark, rich earth, the paper dry skins fluttering away in the wind, the dirt moist enough to cling to your gloves, the earthy smell drifting into your nose. Sixty-three cloves planted. Next year’s garden all ready begun and banked on: that next year they’ll emerge after the thaw, that you’ll be here to watch the first green shoots.

Out front is another lesson of abundance and enough. The thirty-five year old walnut trees are giving up their fruit, in abundance and more than enough. We share. The neighbors, magpies, crows, blue jays and raccoons feast on the leftovers. We don’t mind. We can only manage to crack and use one small twenty-five pound onion sack full and for most of the winter, our cats and we… have free entertainment. Plus, my husband might forbid me to feed the birds because of the mess, but I have found a way around him once more.

How does any of this relate to writing? I write as I plant garlic, with hope in my heart. Hope for each piece I write, for its future. Hope for my dream. That dream of being a writer. Abundance: I write every day. I am a writer living my dream and that is enough.