Gardening Mercies

Sitting near this open window, the fresh washing of misty rain empowering the color green to break forth in fullness, the feeling of new hope drifted over me with the cool gentle breeze coming in. It was the gardening journal, I had taken off the shelf, that stirred me.

During my first marriage, inspiration flooded me as I watched my husband plot and plan my next gardening moves from his wheelchair. By Spring of his final year, I had begun to keep a journal, knowing my memory was not my strongest asset. So, 1994-1996, the years of my journal, opened before me and I began to remember.

"Maintain Hibiscus, eucalyptus, and wildflowers planted last year. Add a row of sun flowers on the West end of house. Plant onions with tomatoes. Try to replant raspberries." A drawing of the yard on graph paper guided me.

By August of the same year, I instructed myself to transplant the Hibiscus to the new house we were moving in to, along with the rose and maybe the raspberries. Exactly 30 days after we signed the papers on the new house, I returned to it from the hospital, a widow.

David and I had talked about our plans for the new yard, so I began in May of 1995, to sketch out our plans. I write, "With David gone, I go it alone. Choosing to have flowers despite the pain, both to help feel the pain and ease it, I press in and press on. More gardening instructions followed, I did the best I could, and by September, I was busy transplanting my favorites into my neighbor's yards before moving back to Oregon.

1996~begin again with another new yard. Draw a picture, bury a soaker hose, order plants. The yard was a blank slate. Both invigorating and frightening. I began to work on a little bit at a time, a small patch here, a bit there. Many days, I just couldn't make myself do anything except go to bed as soon as I got home. My dad built a charming little porch, with hand rails and a built in bench, that glowed with the light from my living room, through the lace curtains, and I would sit out listening to the little water fountain on the deck and the frogs croaking and I thought my world was as near perfect as it could be. I asked my gardening friends questions all the time, then began to prepare the area on both sides of the steps to my deck. Cleaned the soil and kept it clean for a year. Built it up, then planted beautiful flowers, making this haven pure delight for me, and knowing my David would approve. I had begun learning the art of getting starts from other friends' gardens and anticipating the day when they would be full enough to divide and share with others. It grew and grew these tiny steps I took.

Then one day, I was blessed with a bigger house. Truly a blessing, but difficult to watch as my gardens were over turned and became the drain field for the new septic. I scrambled to dig up plants and move them to a protected area in hopes to re-establish them near my house, but failed to figure out how to conquer the gravel that surrounded it. Most of them didn't make it, but there is a beautiful purple flower that we did transplant across the road at my parent's house which warms my heart every time I see it bloom.

After remarrying in 2004, my beloved Paul and I put our energy into rebuilding his house that had been destroyed by fire that same year. This became Annie's Cottage and has been a wonderful place to dig in the ground and refresh the soul.

Today, I look out across the yard of our home, at the remnants of the work that all but ended 10 years ago, and I have hope. We have taken little steps here and there, but unfinished business abounds. Paul expressed his pleasure at seeing my little journal. After 1996, the entries ended completely and I did not even attempt to plot a course for the new house in 2001. We have dreams, plans, ideas. Perhaps we'll write them down and draw them. Perhaps we won't worry about how short life is or how quickly everything can change. Perhaps we'll do it one little thing at a time. Perhaps we will.