On working with rather than against

gardening, dreams, and being like water

Photo by yucar studios on Unsplash

Each time I return to maintain my parents’ garden, I just have one question in my mind: why? I pull the weeds. Cut the grass. Trim back the roses and hydrangeas. Only to have to come back in a few weeks and do it all again.

Of course, I know why I do it. It’s what my mum did and would do if she were still here. Before she died, she showed me a sketch she’d made in the back of her notebook. It was a plan for our garden, Monet-level beautiful, with flowers draping over the fence, pebbled pathways, and a water feature. I thought about creating this garden for a while, but I was overwhelmed by not having her here to guide me through it. I know so little about gardens. This was her passion. Her dream garden would take so much work to create and maintain, even more than the garden she left behind. I think about her dream garden as I toss more weeds into the green bin, looking at the ugly holes I’ve left behind. I think some dreams will only get that far - to the level of being dreamed of - and that is already beautiful.

For years I’ve had this idea of growing a food forest: forget the lawns and plant what thrives, what works together, what is edible and medicinal and good for the wildlife; what can almost grow wild with a little care.

Because I like caring. I love looking after my little veggie boxes, watching each seedling grow and learning what they need. They reward me with food. As I remove my end-of-season tomato vines, filling one last bowl with juicy cherry and banana tomatoes that have managed to appear even as their roots turned black, I think this is not the same as pulling weeds and trimming roses.

One feels like an endless battle: trying to shape something to be a certain way that it does not want to be. The other feels like caring: just being there to help it do what it would do anyway, like a parent holding their hands out as their child learns to ride a bike.

On a related note (I think), I had two dreams this week that I wanted to tell you about. In the first one, I was pushing a boulder up a mountain when I realised I could just let it go. I could let it roll down, and more would roll down, and they would build a new mountain. I could keep pushing, delaying the inevitable as long as possible. I could keep insisting on building the mountain that I want, no matter how much it hurts. Or I could stop trying to control the outcome, and be open to the new mountain of possibility that awaits.

In the second dream, there was a tsunami. I looked up from a peaceful moment to see a wall of water speeding towards me. I was afraid but calm. Remember to go with it, I told myself, as I took a big breath and let the wave swallow me. I didn’t brace myself, and it didn’t crash into me. It simply took me into itself. I held my breath and closed my eyes, letting it take me where it would.

The more I think about this, the more I think this is all we can ever do.

I can’t stop boulders from eventually rolling down a mountain.

I can’t stop a tsunami.

I can practice trusting what happens when I let go.

I can practice being like water, which flows and fits into whatever space it has.

To being more like water (couldn’t end this way without quoting the master! 🌊),

Amy