I began my love of plants when I was quite young. My grandmother would take me outside on the hot, humid and lush days of those beloved Michigan summers. She would hand me sunflower seeds, and we would plant them at the front steps. She would tell me which vines were poison ivy and I would be scared off with stories of oatmeal baths and rashes. The stray cats would weave in and out of my feet, begging for hugs and treats. I would gather the fallen walnuts and pile them up on the front yard- always imagining that they had hearts inside just for me. That land always held me. It still does.
I've been blessed to have 7 grandmothers. Through adoptions, divorces, remarriages, stepparents, etc. It is quite a blessing that I have never taken for granted.
The grandmothers I was raised by, always connected me to the land. They each had their own relationship to the land. They tended, spoke, and hold the land in their hearts and in their own unique expressions. I never really questioned it as a kid. I was just a witness to the magic that unfolded.
I watched how their hands moved, how their bodies sank into the earth, and how the earth was tending to their grief, love, heartbreak, and joys.
I also saw how the land responded to each of them in a specific way. It was a dance only attuned to them.
A dance of giving and receiving.
Abundance and reverence.
Some of my grandmothers expressed to me that when they were in the garden, they heard God's voice the clearest. They heard clarity and truth. One of my grandmothers told me before she passed that the garden was the way she brought life to her grandkids- she knew it was becoming a lost interest and wanted it to normalize as something of the everyday.
I have watched them so closely. I saw the refinement and skill it takes to follow the calling of the garden in their own way. One thing I always found telling was they rarely followed the directions on the seed packets- it was merely a guide- not set in stone. Their green thumbs thrived because in some internal way, the plants and flowers guided them. Their own infusion of spirit is what brought the garden to life. Some gardens were more neat and tidy- reflecting their inner world. Others were wild and feral, marked by fallen tree branches or muddy paths. Both were beautiful. It was the reflection of the beholder and the plants responded.
As I grew, I watched how my grandmother's wisdom passed onto their children and their grandchildren- each taking it in their own wisdom and their own knowing. For instance, my uncle would grow some of the largest pumpkins and tomatoes. He had wild, curly, untamed red hair. His laugh and mischievous smile would fill the room. When it came to his pumpkins and tomatoes, he would lay on the earth and watch them grow for hours- unphased by time passed. They were simply the largest and tastiest things I've ever had.
When I began my official gardening/ farming journey, I was 18 and an almost senior at university. I was already tired of school. A friend asked if I would be interested in going backpacking for a couple of weeks. It required me to take the following year off to travel. I said YES and saved all my money (I worked 80+ hours and 3 jobs.) While my friends path changed, I still wanted to go to Europe. I packed my blue osprey 65L pack and left. I reached out to a farmer- through Woofing ( World Wide Working on Organic Farms) and begun my journey.
I worked on the lands of Ireland, and it awoke the ancestry in me. Some of what I saw in my grandmother's gardens, brought me peace in how I worked on those farms. I felt the calling of my ancestors who had experienced famine and destruction and knew how to work in reverence to the land. I witnessed the hardships of running a farm and the resiliency the farmers had. I learned quick how to plant over 5000 strawberry plants in a field successfully and how to create a "family" meal for the other farmers who were working alongside. I learned the seasonal changes and the importance of a hot day (and several weeks of rain.) It was an amazing and courage building journey.
After I came back to the states, it was clear to me that I could not live separate from a garden or plants (honestly, I don't think anyone can truly.) My life has evolved around this. Even in times where I could not have a full garden, I focused my energy or work on being in someone else's garden or volunteering.
It has become true to me that when working in the garden, I hear the voice of clarity and of clearness. I discovered my own identity in the garden- how I hear the plants and flowers, how I tend to the land, how the land speaks to me. It is a gift. A gift tended and planted early by my beloved grandmothers.
I have grown in their gardens. I grew on a farm in Ireland. I have grown in my own gardens I have built. They taught me the everlasting hope that a garden brings- how it can shelter us in times of hardship. The garden can shine when we are shining. It is a place of respite and of trust- knowing the future is unfolding.
