If you come to Moreland and notice the weeds in the flowerbeds, the unswept path or grass growing in-between the cracks in the pavers, then you have not seen Moreland. You have come looking for perfection and perfection does not live here.
Moreland is a place of peace, bird song, and quiet mornings on the hill. Laughter, tears and gatherings. Where creativity blooms and the sweet smell of fresh cut grass permeates the air. It is a place of hope.
Yesterday for the first time ever, as a life-long gardener, I lost hope. It was devastating and crippling. Without the hope of the gardener, there is no garden.
Covered in sweat, dirt and debris, I sat slumped in the middle of my weedy vegetable plot, in tears, utterly defeated and I hadn’t even planted the crops for the season. That was the whole problem. The monkey-brain had taken over: usually by now my zinnia seeds have been in the ground already for four weeks, the kale is well underway, the flowers have been tucked in with a fresh layer of mulch. The hang up was the “usually by now.” Monkey-brain prattled on: you are too far behind, the weeds have already gone to seed, the beds will be a nightmare for the rest of the season and this is the only available weekend to plant because the next two weekends are taken. It was quite a pathetic, grim and tear-filled scene and I had concluded that there would be no vegetable garden this year.
Too much work, too little time and too little energy.
And then…something amazing happened. My husband appeared with his gardening gloves on. He said the right things like, “we’ll just plant this one corner this year and make it less maintenance.” It was the WE that saved me. We began to dig, weed, clear and coax the plot back to a place of hope. When we were done, it was decided that once again, all of the beds would be planted. Not just the corner bed.
I am usually the one in the relationship that carries us with a glimmer of hope, sparkle and optimism, but this time he came bearing all three.
When it comes to gardening, I don’t worry about whether or not what I’ve just planted will grow. The best part for me is the two seconds after I’ve planted, watered and blessed it. For that moment, that present moment…all the hope in the world exists. The second best moment: if the hard work, actually bears fruit. It’s the moment I get to pick the tomato and slice it thinly, then layer it with mozzarella, fresh basil and drizzle it with balsamic vinaigrette. It’s the moment I gather bloom after bloom of zinnia, lavender, cosmos, black-eyed susan, peonies and carefully arrange them in an old milk jug carrier filled with vintage blue mason jars. But, if I only experience that first moment and not the second, it’s okay. Because, I am a gardener and I believe that as Robert Rodale put it:
the best crop of a garden, year after year, is hope.
