Gardening Without Life Jackets

When I was around seven or eight years old, my Dad, a proficient doggy-paddler but a non-swimmer, decided me and my sister needed to learn to swim. So, he bundled us up in a couple of lumpy, bright orange-colored life jackets and marched us down to the lake at the end of our street. A group of three, we tromped the length of the longest dock and stopped at the edge, where my Dad picked us up, one at a time, and threw us into the lake. After sinking and bobbing back up to the surface several times, we did our best to tread water and make it back to the shoreline, while he watched from the dock. This ritual continued for the remainder of the afternoon until my Dad, satisfied we had mastered the basic skills of swimming, allowed us to slosh back home. 

Years later, while swimming at a local water park with my friends, I attempted to dive from a dock similar to the one my Dad had tossed me from when I was a kid. Unfortunately, I only knew how to jump into the water, not dive. Hence, instead of keeping my head tucked safely between my forearms for the duration of the dive, I looked up just as I entered the lake, and smacked my cheeks on the water's surface. Blushing crimson and hot with embarrassment, I swam to the shore to catch my breath.


Swimming and gardening may seem, at first glance, like activities that have little in common. However, they are similar in that they require perseverance, training, and growth for those who wish to advance their skill set. While my Dad's unconventional swimming lessons taught me how to stay afloat and make it to shore, they did not enable me to smoothly penetrate the surface, plunge deeper, and actually enjoy the water. As gardeners, we must be willing to work harder, learn more, self-reflect when necessary, and revel in the tasks that are unique to the garden. In essence, we must be willing to garden without life jackets.

The Nosy Gardener

Okay, I confess - I am a nosy gardener. Admittedly, one of my favorite things to do is drive down the road and look at what other folks are seeding in their gardens, creating in their flower beds, and planting in their pots. Not only do I snoop as I drive by, but I also occasionally borrow an idea or two for my own use.

My inquisitive nature, as it relates to gardening, can more than likely be attributed to the generations of farmers, gardeners, and growers in my family that came before me. From my great grandfather, who owned and worked a farm in South Carolina prior to the Civil War--my grandparents, who grew the most delicious strawberries and blackberries I've ever tasted--and my dad, who made me pick ground cherries each year until I thought my fingers would fall off, I've inherited a sense of respect for those who sow, as well as a curiosity as to what they grow.

Hence, we are all borrowers to some degree. We take what we have learned from others, test it, try it, tweak it, spiff it up as needed, and hopefully pass it on to the next generation.

Me and my sister picking berries in my grandparent's garden.

The Climbing Tree

The tree stood in a wooded area behind our house. Its trunk was rough but sturdy, and its branches seemed to expand beyond the width of the sky. Its first fork was positioned close enough to the ground to allow me a handhold on either side, and this made it perfect for climbing. As a kid, I'd insert one small, canvas-covered foot in the middle of that fork, and heave myself up off the ground. Per instructions from my Dad, I rarely looked down, but instead climbed with my eyes towards the heavens, always anticipating my next foothold.

I haven't climbed a tree in years. However, the lessons I learned from my Dad in regard to climbing have served me well. As an adult, I continue to look for footholds that will allow me to move in the direction I need to go. Once found, I propel myself forward by seeking support from my family and friends. And I seldom look down, choosing instead to fix my gaze upon the expansive firmament above.

Compelled

"The mountains are calling and I must go."

The quote above is credited to John Muir. As an author and naturalist, Muir advocated for forest conservation and preservation. Although I love being outside and experiencing nature, I am drawn to Muir's pronouncement because it sums up how I feel when I work in my garden.

Oftentimes, when asked why I invest so much time and effort into getting things to grow, it is hard for me to formulate an answer right away, to put my passion into words. On these occasions, I am most likely to talk about my grandmother, and how watching her work in her garden inspired me to start one of my own.

On a practical note, I cannot explain this innate desire I have to put my hands in the dirt, loosen it up, and move it around. Nor do I know why talking about plants, flowers, and shrubs takes me from a mild-mannered individual to a zealot in less time than it takes a Pentecostal preacher to speak in tongues. What I do know is that regardless of where I've lived, and despite my circumstances, I've always been able to grow things. I've had no formal training, only what I've learned on my own and from my family. I rely mostly on my instincts, and while I've made many mistakes over the years, I've also had appreciable success. I consider myself a lifelong student of the discipline of gardening, and I educate myself by researching, reading, and reaching out to others who share my enthusiasm.

Thus, the calling that Muir refers to makes perfect sense to me. No apologies, no regrets, no lengthy explanations. I've really just got to go.