Ordinary, Yet Exquisite

I started weeding the kitchen garden last night. I stood with clumps of basil, fistfuls of dill, and clenched tufts of oregano in my weighted hands.

I pulled weeds, clipped overgrown plants, wafted mint near my face. I lingered, trying not to rush this gardening task. Some of my best thinking happens in the garden. Busy hands give me time to reflect, to process. One minute I’m weeding around the strawflower, the next minute my buried thoughts find their way to the surface.

Last night I thought about people I know, some personally and some only by name, whose lives are overrun by illness. I struggled with this juxtaposition: my abundant garden and their scarce time. I grew despondent, then angry.

What would I give up to see their scarcity become abundance? Easy: this kitchen garden, this summer night, singing crickets and fragrant rosemary.

I would give up splendid things, like pink cosmos swaying high on the wind, and ordinary things, like dirt under my fingernails from working the soil or stiff legs from bending low to harvest lemon balm.

I wish it worked this way: my present delight for your unending heartache.

Gardening involves loss — I mourn when a flower fails to thrive. It also includes moments of rapture, when a handful of cosmos and snapdragons create an inferno of delight.

Standing in the kitchen garden awash in evening light, my left hand overflows with nuisance weeds while my right hand clutches gardening sheers. Wispy dill plants seesaw in the wind; my verdant garden exists in an aching world. I nearly sob.

It helps to conjure past summer memories.

I only have to close my eyes to remember moments when summer smelled of fresh coffee and blooming jasmine.

I recall memories like this one: just before sunrise, when the sky hovers between lavender and pink, I collect my green flower shears and a glass jar filled with tepid water. Beyond the back door, our yard shimmers with birds singing to one another. A twinge of guilt overcomes me as I trespass on their choral conversation.

I can’t wait to greet the flowers. They wait, dewy and fresh, for the sun to rise and the heat to climb. I love knowing the best part of gardening is still ahead of me. The dahlias, the sunflowers: they blossom toward the end of summer. Delphinium return in late August for a second ice blue flush of color; purple liatris woo hungry monarchs for most of August.

But wandering the garden also reminds me of my youngest daughter and her very best friend who used to live across the street in a blue house with a wide, open front yard. Their friendship followed a daily ritual of waking up, calling each other, meeting at the end of the driveway, and proceeding to fall into a full day of imagination and laughter. Last summer’s days looked like trampolines and bikes, picnics and pool parties. Her friend moved away.

Once, my oldest daughter’s pet bunny lived in a bunny house situated adjacent to the kitchen garden. I would spy her tiny white nose pressed against the metal screen as I walked by the raised garden beds. She knew enough to greet me this way — it’s how she enjoyed bounties of homegrown lettuce and parsley.

Even though both daughters mended their broken hearts, I wish I could give them — and all those starving for time — one more day of unassuming bliss. Ordinary, yet exquisite.

Flowers featured in today’s newsletter: tradescantia, dahlia “Sebastian,” dahlia “Bee’s Mix,” hydrangea “Annabelle,” assorted cosmos, celosia “Pink Flamingo,” assorted zinnias, coleus.

---

Thanks for reading this month’s newsletter. If you enjoy my writing, please consider referring Roots & Vines to people you know.

See you next month.

-Betsy