Dear Gardener Down the Street

My writing has taken many forms over the last few years. Observational essays and lyrical pieces and nonfiction musings and most recently, poetry. Much like the garden, where bio-diversity provides needed layers of protection against pests and perils that threaten plants, writing across styles keeps me curious. It staves off boredom from predictability.

This month, I’m exploring letter writing as a type of essay.

Letter writing is romantic, historical, intimate, and easily misunderstood by those not accustomed to penning correspondence by hand. I am the generation of international pen pals, of passing furtive notes on lined notebook paper between desks during social studies, of writing fan letters to celebrity crushes and then sending them by mail, a slow study in patience.

My grandmother wrote letters to me all through adulthood — I kept most of them. During college, my father kept in touch nearly weekly with letters typed on brightly colored paper. He still formats his texts to me like a letter:

Hi Betsy,

Here is the company we used

for our bat control.

I hope this never changes.

It was a late summer evening when I found myself sitting next to a neighboring gardener at a causal block party. Later, when I passed by her beautiful front garden full of blooming dahlias, I made a commitment to grow my own. I never reconnected with her, but still think of her encouragement when I harvest dahlias blooms for a bouquet. And even though I can barely remember what she looks like, I know what I would say to her if we met again.

Dear Gardener Down the Street,

The flowers are dwindling. I know their days are a gift, not a given, so I place them in extraordinary places around the house, a surprise for when we reach for a book, shift to peek around the corner, or squat down to gather our belongings. August encourages confident flowers, don’t you think?

I once carried a story around in my head that went like this: I can’t grow dahlias. Despite your encouragement, I assumed they were too fussy or I was too new of a gardener or our weather wasn’t right for these demanding flowers. Lots of subplots kept me believing in this narrative.

I have a whole library in my brain of made-up stories that convince me I can’t do something. I’m not sure how I acquired so many of them, but I have enough to call it a library.

One day I decided to test this story by actually trying to grow dahlias just like the tall blooms you cultivate in your front garden. Long story short: I can.

Do you find these late months, when summer dissolves into early autumn, obscured by expectation? I spent my early morning becoming increasingly anxious at how autumn is nothing but responsibility. School, fall garden prep, doctor appointments, and parent-teacher conferences. Dance lessons, birthdays, work conferences, and winter home maintenance. My hands need a promise of relief, so I gather zinnias, dahlias, cosmos, basil, coleus, jalapeños, tomatoes from the garden and dip my head straight toward sudden activity. What would my bouquets look had I never met you, never tried growing dahlias?

All this to say: thank you.

Sincerely,

The Neighbor with a Dwarf Cherry Tree in Her Front Garden

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See you again later this month, when I share flower photos from the garden as part of my visual essay called Rewind.

To see an entire collection of my flower photography, visit my online store, Roots & Vines. Let’s connect! Leave a comment to let me know your thoughts about this month’s essay.

Betsy