I’m not really much of a gardener.
I wish I was, I really do. I envy those people who claim that digging around in the dirt is therapeutic and relaxing. To my lazy bones, it sounds suspiciously like work. I get overwhelmed by the planning involved. Which plants to put in at which time, which ones need shade, which need full sunlight. Do I put fertilizer on? What is a compost pile? Do I need one? How am I supposed to weed my garden with a baby on my hip?
But last week I took my first step.
Ada and I planted a strawberry plant.
The gardener in you should prepare, because I will tell you that my mom actually bought me the strawberry plants a year ago, but I never got around to planting them. So ignoring the fact that they are probably not safe to use after a year of sitting in my kitchen cupboard, I took the kids outside, dug up some dirt from around my rhubarb, (those came with the house) and poured some of the strawberry bag in. I couldn’t really tell where the actual strawberry plants were, so I grabbed a handful and hoped for the best.
I placed my delightful little pot o’ strawberries on my sunny kitchen counter and have diligently watered it every day.
And two days ago, lo and behold:
I was more excited than Ada, I must admit. It was thrilling to see that tiny little sprig, reaching for life after a year of recluse behind my baking supplies. I felt proud….ok, so I didn’t have much to be proud of, considering I just threw some dirt in a pot, but still, it was somewhat of an accomplishment for me.
I get what you gardeners are all about.
Planting seeds, tending a garden–it’s an act of faith. Weeding, spraying, fertilizing. Praying that your hard work pays off in the end, that your efforts will be rewarded by the first shoot, pushing through the damp earth. The thrill of seeing that first sign of spring, of fresh, green life.
A sprig of hope after a long, dark winter.
That’s what tomorrow is all about, isn’t it?
Happy Easter everyone!