Some memories remain with us and almost sparkle when we turn towards them. I am sharing one of those, thankful to have “captured” the moment in a poem.
I was 25 (just feeling into that is amazing enough!). It was the summer I planted my first garden. What I harvested in that season of my life is much more than tomatoes–which is not to underestimate the thrill of seeing their beautiful red bodies ripen!
I share “First Garden”* with immeasurable awe at the miraculousness of growth from seed to fruit, and with awe-filled gratitude for how we are grown by life, including through finding delight in unexpected places and people.
May you bump into delight and delight overcome you when you least expect it.
*“First Garden” was published in Audubon’s Sanctuary Magazine (almost 4 decades after it was first written). I am grateful to the late Jeannie Zeiger, then Sanctuary’s poetry editor, for requesting the poem.
FIRST GARDEN
The year I lived on the third floor above
old Mr. McKinley who was almost always
drunk, red-eyed, and petulant, was the year
I dug my first garden. It was right
next to his and we would be out there—
he and I and my young son—
every night until we couldn’t see.
His white crewcut luminous at dusk,
he taught me about manure tea and relaxing.
I always carried Rodale’s Basic Principles
of Organic Gardening, its curling pages
smeared with soil.
Mr. McKinley, held up by his hoe, teased
me gardening by the book, burrowed in the index
my son earnestly seeking earthworms
among the tomato plants.That fourth of July night I sprayed the aphids
with garlic-hot pepper juice and
bumped into Mr. McKinley by the back door—
my face, arms, and legs coated with the potion—
he sniffed and shouted:
Honey, didn’t your book tell you
you weren’t supposed to wear the dressing?
You didn’t even wait
to pick the salad.
I looked straight into his bloodshot eyes
and we exploded into laughter
under those hot July stars.
As many believe (and I do, too), we chose to be alive during these times. May we find our ways to radiate the love within us into the outer whirl of life. May we be points of light.
With love and gratitude for you,
Ani
G'Mar Chatima Tova
I close with this customary greeting whose literal meaning is: "a good final sealing." I will add to that: May you know the love of which you are made. What better than to know this?
With gratitude,
Ani
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What a sweet memory, Ani! There are many who are inspired to plant their “first garden” during the past pandemic…another gift of slowing down and seeing what Nature provides when we take the time to be in partnership with her!
“Another gift of slowing down….” I love what you say about partnering with Nature as well.
Your post reminds me of the countless ways the pandemic inspired /forced us to slow down, to see, to Be and discover what we hurried past previously or felt we had no time for. Gardening surely is one of those, Wanda. As is you taking the time to read this poem shared and to comment here.
Thank you!
Ani