“I am a frayed and nibbled survivor in a fallen world, and I am getting along. I am aging and eaten and have done my share of eating too. I am not washed and beautiful, in control of a shining world in which everything fits, but instead am wandering awed about on a splintered wreck I’ve come to care for…” – Anne Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek
Working in a garden continuously has me marveling at the resilience of nature. Tell me you are not inspired by the potato plant that has grown out of the compost pile? Try to convince me that the sunflower that has survived the grasp of a bird’s beak and has germinated in the rhubarb patch is not a simple miracle. Even the weeds earn my respect, the blackberry and bindweed that endure flame, hoes, and shears, determined to live and set seed.
I find that gardeners are often as resilient as the plants they tend, willing to endure thorns, the bitter cold, and overbearing heat. Showing up any chance they have to tend the bit of land that they are determined to cultivate. Gardeners who come home with grocery bags still in hand, who suddenly abandon their wares to crouch in the driveway and weed. Stewards who garden, knowing that the spaces they tend are ephemeral, but who nevertheless pick up their trowels to create a bit of beauty and to care for other creatures.
Continuing to garden while climate change is creating unprecedented environments is no small feat. I write this after an April that saw little rain in my beloved valley, which is usually saturated with water this time of year. Within these dire and often novel growing conditions, we are increasingly being asked to call upon our resilience, to reach deep into ourselves and carry on. As I stare out into a future of continuing erratic climate patterns, I find solace in the resilience of the life that does remain. I take my cues from the garden, from the resilience that I find there.
Resilience is not built up from only a sheer determinance to live. It can take the shape of adapting in order to thrive. It often means flowering sooner, going dormant earlier, and setting fewer seeds. I am learning that I, too, need to adapt, choosing to grow in a different way. I am loosening my needs for perfection and my dogged work ethic that can sometimes leave me feeling spent. I am trying to catch my breath more, to take breaks to sit in the garden and be present at all that is going on in the space.
On a particular morning when I felt an overbearing sense of sadness, I was pushing my wheelbarrow of compost through the garden. I stopped every so often to feel pockets of soil with my fingers to gauge the level of dryness. I was surprised to find how well the garden beds were holding water. How resilient the soil was despite the dry and trying times. I realized the years of compost, leaf mulch, and lack of compaction had contributed to deep-rooted perennials and healthy soil biomes. In this way, resilience came from the preparation for this very situation, the creation of healthy seed beds that would allow plants to flourish in these dire circumstances. Likewise, I am taking in my environment, my work, my home, my community, and feeling grateful for the growing environment that allows me to root deeply. We can still bloom. We can be resilient. Take it from the potato patch, which grows with persistence that can only be marveled at, feeding us all the while.
– With Love from the Garden
Shannon
Farm to Table
Our tasting room menu this month features nettles and fresh herbs from the Brooks Garden.