I planted a garden because it brings me disproportionate joy.
Watering the plants is my worship. The smell of the water from the garden hose, the way my thumb shakes with exertion from making the water spray wide, to the way the cold droplets play rat a tat tat on my feet. I lose myself in the unhurried caretaking of the plants that will contribute to feeding my family.
I take my morning coffee outside and tiptoe to the mini garden at the foot of the deck and squeal, “OhmygoshIgrewanhonesttogoodnesscucumber!”
I run breathlessly upstairs to Sean brandishing the cucumber. “Do you see this? I grew this!”
I beam as the girls ooh and ah over the progress of the broccoli and tomatoes. “Mom, are those beans? We grew green beans?!”
Some nights after I shuck my work clothes, I pad out to the fenced garden and stoop low between the massive blooms and vines. I leave language behind and slip into a world of sounds and smells, textures and tastes. I pretend that some of the deadlines and obstacles are gone. I am simply responsible for pulling the weeds from the earth and for securing the mesh to keep the critters away. The work is not finite, but it is deliberate and without emotional complexity.
This morning I shared this photo on Instagram because I thought it was fun. I share it with you now because it seemes to have struck a happy chord with people. And I want that for you.
Never stop chasing rainbows or playing with garden hoses.