The God in the Garden

Frequently, I ask myself why I’m gardening, and I always come up with a different answer every time.

Certainly there’s the issue of a rising food crisis around the world, and the Victory Gardener in me feels the obligation any parent and spouse should feel to ensure their family is fed. And the philanthropist in me seeks to spread this mission with The Victory Garden Society
But this doesn’t seem to quite encompass the why and wherefore of doing backbreaking labor and spending hundreds of dollars, to turn out about $50 worth of produce, much of which we’ll simply give away.

Then there’s the part of me that just needs to get outdoors, away from the electronic detritus that makes up our everyday lives. In the garden, there are no phones, no computers, no televisions, radios, no advertisements, no salesmen, no game consoles, and the only blackberries that will ever find their way into my garden will be the kind we can eat. It allows me to feel connected to the Earth, rather than the Grid. After spending all day in front of a screen, trying to help other people with their electronic problems, it’s nice to find quiet solace where the only buzzing comes from happy little insects, and the only ringing is the gentle tinkle of wind chimes.

The teacher and parent in me loves taking my baby boy out to the garden, and showing him each of the plants, and teaching him the names. According to young Jack, our “Hmmmehhh” is growing quite well, though the tiny little fruit doesn’t seem to be gaining much mass the last two days. The “Dah-hoo” is nearly done for, and will require extensive cutting back and surgery if it is to recover from the Dah-hoo vine borer. I am regrettably losing this fight, despite my best efforts. Our recent crop of “Bwab-bwah-bwab” is doing great, and some of our friends are already queuing up for them when they’re ready for harvest. While is understanding of the ecology and philosophy of the garden is superb, his taxonomy leaves a bit to be desired.

Then there’s the part that my father taught me, and his father before him. “A man who loves his land will treat it better than one who is paid.” My grandparents each kept victory gardens back in the day, and even though they later replaced fruit and veg with bushes and flowers, they kept them immaculate as long as health allowed. Actually, immaculate is an inadequate description. My grandfather was an engineer, and any yard that fell under his jurisdiction had to be perfectly flat, and at a 3-degree incline away from the house in any direction. Every bush had to be of uniform height, growing equidistant from its neighbors. Purple Martins were allowed, but Starlings and Grackles were warded off with slingshots and ball bearings. Dogs and cats were warded off with his special “throwin’ shovel,” which he could heft with the precision of Apollo.

My father, while not quite as specific about his yard, still managed to convey to me a number of methods for mowing, edging, and weed-eating, that, while I was a teenager, seemed ridiculously obsessive-compulsive. Now that I have my own yard, I can see why he was so adamant about using the driveways to turn the mower (that way the wheels don’t chew up the grass), or why you should always weed-eat before you mow, then edge after you mow (so that the wall-grass is mulched by the mower, and the edge-trenches are cleaned out). My mother went on to teach me many things about caring for plants, and has since taken over the yard in light of my father’s cancer. We now share ideas and new techniques on a nearly weekly basis, and her own gardens are a delight to look at. I’ve tried to get her on MyFolia, but am not sure if she’ll ever get into it. Still, it gives me a connection to my parents, and my grandparents, that will last long beyond words and mortal coils.

And I suppose no small part of it is pure vanity. The first thing strangers passing by your house will ever judge you on, is your lawn. Don’t believe me? What is your impression of the family down the street? You know, the ones with the overgrown yard, where the grass is over a foot high, the flowerbeds are filled with trash, and you can’t even see the front door for the trifid standing sentinel-like in the way, ready to eat any callers. Do you stop by to say hello? Or do you drive past and shake your head, wishing those trashy people would do something about their yard, or that someone would call the city and get a notice posted. Now what do you think about the other family down the street? The ones with the perfectly manicured lawn, where perhaps the grass isn’t the greenest, because they don’t waste too much water, but it’s nice, trim, and neat. The bushes and flowers and all well manicured, and the landscaping is in an eye-pleasing arrangement that makes the whole house look more elegant than its square footage. It wouldn’t matter if Mother Teresa lived in the overgrown house, people would judge her to be as trashy as her yard. It wouldn’t matter if Ted Bundy lived in the trim house, people would say “there lives a fine upstanding citizen who takes care of his lawn.” When they pass your house, people you have never met, will never meet, and plenty of those you will, along with family and friends alike, will all judge you by your yard before they ever see your face.

But most of all, more than anything else, I guess the reason I toil for hours a day to make the yards and gardens presentable, is because of Life. There’s a certain wonder in watching a baby something you planted grow up to be a “dah-hoo,” or to watch the leavings of your evening veg become broken down over time in the compost heap, and watching the layers upon layers at work upon one another. To see the intricate web of ecosystem, transpiration, degeneration and regeneration work upon one another. The slowly emerging awareness that everything around you, from the grass to the tree to the veg and fruit, are all living things, put on Earth to achieve the same purpose of converting energy from one form to another so that it may be used by yet another form for conversion…is almost like that old time religion to me.

I’m not much of a church-going man. Like most Texans, I belong to a church, and to keep the family peace, I occasionally bring the family to attend it, but I’ve never really felt comfortable in one. My church isn’t one of walls and bricks and mortar. My church is of dirt and leaves. Within the walls, being preached to, sung at, and judged by my fellow man, I do not feel the presence of God; I feel the presence of an organization that wants my time and money. I know that my “stewardship” for this organization will do little more than add on another building, or send more people out to sell the religion to others who probably had something better to do in the first place.

But in the garden, in the yard, I find God. I find God inside of a flower bud just starting to open its blossom in the rays of dawn. I find God in a wriggling mass of worms when I turn over the compost. I find God when I see the tiny little honeysuckle I planted a year ago has somehow become this beautiful giant that covers my wall with orange and red flowers. There, I find proof of God. There, I feel whole, content, and at peace. There, I know that every ounce of stewardship I put into the land, goes to God. I love the land, I love it dearly, and it is such a shame that the more devoutly religious among my friends and family are unable to recognize that I can lead a far more spiritual life when left to my spade and shears, than when forced to hold a plate and hymnal.

So, I suppose, in the end, I garden for many reasons, some selfish, some altruistic, and some for purposes divine. Whatever the reason, in the end, it amounts to this:

Because I want to.