My husband, youngest son, and I relocated to a new city at the first of the year. Moving was a big deal for us. My husband was embarking on a second career. Our pre-teen son was moving into a school where enrollment was 3 ½ times the student population of his previous school. And this adoptee mom was “leaving” her four adult children behind by relocating to a new community. Obviously, we’ve all had a lot to navigate in 2023.
I was able to land a school secretary job in our new city, my favorite part of which means I get several weeks off in the summer. The new home we purchased came with a fenced off garden area, complete with 14 raised garden boxes. It was one of the features that immediately endeared me to the place, and I was anxious to begin planning out the space when the warm days of spring began to emerge. I also had to convince myself I wouldn’t kill everything I planted. For most of our married life, I killed every plant, both indoor and outdoor, that I encountered. It was one more thing that I never seemed to get right, especially in the eyes of my self-appointed-plant-expert adoptive mother. I grew up in a home where she tended to the house plants and landscaping religiously. She watered things on a strict schedule, and meticulously plucked the dead leaves and blooms when they no longer served their purpose. Much like she discarded me when I established healthy boundaries without compromise at 48-years old. I no longer played the lifelong mandated role, so I was cut off and cut out.
I never quit trying to grow things. I would occasionally pick up a houseplant on a whim, or I’d receive them as gifts, but eventually they all seemed to fade away. I planted flowers outside every summer. I learned which flowers were tolerant of my ineptness, and would lean toward purchasing those every year. They would struggle, especially by the time August’s scorching heat would arrive. But I kept at it because I liked the way they looked around my house when they were thriving. We’d had a small garden off and on over the years, but I never seemed to get the hang of it. It was like my mere presence had an impact on the garden’s production, or lack thereof. My mother’s disgust was evident when she would stop by the house, pruning and shaking her head while mumbling things under her breath. She’d fill a vessel with water, and give me the side eye as she attended to the plants I’d damaged.
Somewhere around the time that my adoptive parents decided to stop talking to me, I was lamenting the loss of another house plant. I had tried to emulate the strict watering schedule and pruning techniques I had observed during my childhood. I just couldn’t get it right. Ever. My husband, who, at that point, had patiently endured my brown thumb for nearly thirty years looked at me and said, “Maybe it’s time to tell a new story about this.” What he was really trying to get me to do was to shed another layer of an old identity. That little girl who never seemed to get it “right,” because she didn’t get the hang of how her adoptive mother did things, needed to try her own way. And, so, I started small. I quit the regimented watering schedule, instead relying on my own observations and choosing to water each houseplant when I thought it looked like it needed it. I moved indoor plants around based on the time of year and where I thought they would get the light they needed. And things started to not only live, but they started to show new growth. The array of outdoor plants expanded and grew the next year. The last summer we spent in our previous home, my outdoor flowers were beautiful. I had vibrant colors until the first frost hit in early October. And I had a carload of houseplants to transport when we moved.
And then there was this new garden. We hadn’t planted a garden for several years prior to moving, and while I was excited to get things going in the spring, that old voice of doubt kept creeping in. I wanted so desperately to make it work. The opportunity for my own growth was thawing, just like the ground outside. Gardening conversations with a co-worker left me giddy. And so I planted. A lot. When a late frost nipped the cucumber plants, I replanted new ones. I have picked gobs of green beans and peas. We have romaine lettuce, carrots, and beets. The zucchini are abundant. Peppers, onions, and tomatoes will soon be combined for salsa. There will be corn to put in the freezer. The dill, cucumbers, and leeks will be pickled. There is new growth all around. Thriving.