Personal Essays
In My Garden: Coming Home To Myself
Twice in my life, I’ve planted an extensive garden - only to have my landlord announce they were putting the house on the market. In both cases, I bought the house rather than leave the garden behind. I guess I’m what you would call a plant person.
My first job, in 1968, was at a nursery. Since then, I’ve managed retail nurseries, run a garden design business, and even owned a small organic vegetable-growing business.
When I sold my home in California, I left behind a garden that I’d invested an enormous amount of time and energy in. The yard buzzed with activity as hummingbirds and butterflies moved through colorful perennial beds, and trees I’d planted as foot-tall youngsters were now 20 feet tall, casting their shade across the back yard.
I didn’t plant a garden when I moved to Oregon. Instead of working at a nursery, I found a job at a nonprofit and spent my days sitting in front of a computer. There was a hole in the middle of my life that I couldn’t articulate, and my life felt dull and lusterless.
That changed this spring, when a neighbor generously offered to till up three garden beds in my yard and helped me to reclaim a vital part of my identity. I am a gardener once again.
This year, I’m eating vegetables I’ve grown myself. I know where the garter snake in my squash bed lives. I’ve marveled at the delicate green arabesques of broccoli heads as they go into flower, and spent an afternoon watching a cicada emerge, shiny and new, from its cast-off skin. I’ve come home to myself here in my garden, and it’s a joyous homecoming.
My first job, in 1968, was at a nursery. Since then, I’ve managed retail nurseries, run a garden design business, and even owned a small organic vegetable-growing business.
When I sold my home in California, I left behind a garden that I’d invested an enormous amount of time and energy in. The yard buzzed with activity as hummingbirds and butterflies moved through colorful perennial beds, and trees I’d planted as foot-tall youngsters were now 20 feet tall, casting their shade across the back yard.
I didn’t plant a garden when I moved to Oregon. Instead of working at a nursery, I found a job at a nonprofit and spent my days sitting in front of a computer. There was a hole in the middle of my life that I couldn’t articulate, and my life felt dull and lusterless.
That changed this spring, when a neighbor generously offered to till up three garden beds in my yard and helped me to reclaim a vital part of my identity. I am a gardener once again.
This year, I’m eating vegetables I’ve grown myself. I know where the garter snake in my squash bed lives. I’ve marveled at the delicate green arabesques of broccoli heads as they go into flower, and spent an afternoon watching a cicada emerge, shiny and new, from its cast-off skin. I’ve come home to myself here in my garden, and it’s a joyous homecoming.