[I started to write this a week ago today.]
Both of my grandmothers mowed and gardened for as long as they physically could. Omi gradually stopped as she lost her oxygen flow. Oma stopped when her arthritis stole her capacity to kneel close to the ground and squeeze the shears.
My mother gardens. One of my earliest memories of her in a garden is when she planted flowers and vegetables in the backyard of our little house in Beaufort, SC.
The backyard was prickly. I know this because I spent a lot of time barefoot. There was a patch of grass in the middle that was nice and burr-free. It slowly expanded every year. On hot days my brother and I would drag the sprinkler to the foot-friendly zone and play under the water within the natural green boundaries.
Today, I have plants inside my home that belonged to my grandmothers. I have plants outside growing from seeds my mother sent to me. Gardening connects us.
Tomorrow, my mother will see the garden for the first time.
My therapist asked me how I feel about opening up this healing space to others. She heard my reluctance and named it.
In the gardens here, I have rediscovered and woven together silken thread of self to create a new narrative. I’ve found peace within when my children were acting out in rage. I’ve found the air to breathe when the world around me felt like it was collapsing. I’ve released visions of myself and dreams I once cherished. I’ve accepted, nurtured, and come to value the being of life. My being.
I know why Omi wheeled the oxygen tank outdoors for as long as she could.
I know why Oma willed her hands to squeeze the shears as she tended to her flowers. (Since writing this, Oma died. Read about it here.)
I know why my mother spends hours a day in her garden.
Presence. Connection. Healing.
It’s not necessarily the act of gardening that connects us. Rather, the being.
The healing.
I am ready to open the gates and share.