Tender Beginnings

The gardens gift is that no matter what we will always be beginners

Sitting in the early morning, watching the rain fall on the garden, I can see the beginnings of everything around me. The birds are building nests. The Robin prances through the garden looking for worms. The Morning Dove coos on the rooftop as if it wants to tell us all it is time to awaken. Every tree is leafing, and the pines are beginning to create pollen. The plants all are rising, and the tulips are beginning to bloom. Spring in the North is slow and tedious work for us all, but it is a powerful example of how tender and beautiful it is to begin.

Every year at this very point, I begin to see how I am also beginning, even as a seasoned gardener myself. My garden has emerged officially, and I resonate with all that is beginning at once after winter's grip is released. In the weeding and clearing away the old, I see just what a gift it is to start over once again. The excitement of it all is palpable in the birds' songs and the bright green of the garlic, but there is also a fine line where our excitement brings anxiousness.

I have every question about how things will go for us this year. Will the carrots grow? Will the squash bugs come? Will the compost be the right kind? Even as a well-seasoned gardener, I have these questions. These are reminders of how we always remain a beginner as a gardener, and I believe it is one of the greatest gifts in growing anything. We constantly live in a state of learning, experimenting, being humbled, and working to cultivate our vision with ever-changing truths.

I have always found such deep excitement and angst with being a beginner, particularly as an adult. For so long, I viewed the beginning as the bottom, as if beginning was nothing to celebrate. I used to see it as a climb up to some unknown destination, but gardening has taught me that being a beginner is where the magic lies in life. I am one of those that constantly enjoy achieving. So beginning something new can be hard, but a necessary way of finding humility in the process of growth in myself.

My first garden, where I truly chose every plant, learned to weed it all by myself, and created the world I envisioned in my head, was full of learning and humility. Did I grow things? Yes. Were they great? Sort of. Did I make mistakes? Oh yeah! Did I know what I know now? My goodness, no. But I began. I stepped over the ledge and said, let's see how it goes, and I never looked back with any regret.

When we grew our first garden, we were broke. We were newly married at the end of the recession with degrees in creative careers (no one wanted newly minted creatives, so we had to use that creativity in other ways). We were beginning in every sense of the word so that garden fed us when we needed it most and in ways we never expected. Those tender days were so important to us as we learned, expanded ourselves, saved money, and discovered the raw bliss of being young and in the process of becoming.

Of course, I did all sorts of things I never would do now, but I was working from very little knowledge besides what I knew from growing up around gardens. I didn't have the influx of information on what to do or not do as we do now. Social media wasn't a thing, and no one was chopping up a Reel to show me 100 ways to do the same thing; grow a garden. I see now that ignorance is total bliss. I found passion amongst my curiosity and, along the way, discovered a deep connection I never anticipated to nature that would soon shift my entire career once I became a parent.

Would I have jumped in the same way if I had overthought it all? Would I have been as calm about how things went wrong if I had to compare to others on social media? I am not sure, but I do know that the mental silence and comparison conversation wouldn’t have been good for me because I struggle with it now, even as a well-versed gardener.

Instead, I trusted my intuition of what seemed right at that moment. Did this plant feel right here? Sure, so I did that. Should I use this compost? It seems reasonable - let's try it. These were instead the conversations in my mind rather than questioning if everything was right by some unknown person's standards. I leaned on what I remembered from the days in my grandfather's garden, where the soil and plants ended up writing the truth of what I eventually realized I was intended to do in this world, and I let it guide me without questioning.

I didn't know any better, and now, I use the same school of thought when I begin again every spring in my garden. Every year I face new challenges and know they are bound to come. There is no predicting it or enough info I can take in to help me navigate the unknown. I jump in, focus on what is right in front of me, and do my best with what I have. When I face the garden in spring, I remind myself how beautiful it is to begin and curb the expectations or judgment of what it is to be tender and determined.

I am always asking, why do I have to know everything to feel I can do this? Why does it have to go "perfectly" the first time? What if I was okay with trusting my intuition a little more? What if it doesn't work the way I hoped? The ignorance and curiosity of true beginners is a beautiful gift that I always remind myself I desire to cultivate. The feeling of hope in the unknown is exciting and invigorating.

As an adult, there always is a sense we must know everything before we start anything new. As if jumping in without the full understanding will result in an epic failure, which will make us unaccepted by those around us. A belief like this steals our ability to be curious learners that usually made up our childhood and got washed away with every tiny way the world defined our expectations of being a worthy human. I find myself constantly digging at these roots that lead to this feeling of needing to know everything before I make a decision. Sometimes that plays in my favor, like when making a financial decision, but when it comes to places of play and hobbies, I have learned I should buck it all and jump in and enjoy the process of learning and remaining curious. The unknown is exciting. The failing is where we learn.

The garden is this perfect safe place to connect to our curiosity and desire to play. Nature isn’t judging or expecting anything of us besides caring for her, and in return, she will be there to reciprocate what we give. The gifts vary, whether it be lessons in our trials or the actual fruits of our labor. All of it is important in rewriting our script and connecting back to what it means to be a child who desires to be curious in this playground of a world that is before us.

In that first garden, I am happy I didn't know anything other than just how the garden made me feel. I am glad I chased curiosity before anything else. I think of how I raked the soil with the desire to discover the gifts that would emerge and looked to pay attention to what nature is capable of doing. In those precious days of being a first-time gardener, I desired to smell the leaves of the tomatoes and to remember what it was to run my hands over the plants as I did as a child. I wanted to bubble my fundamental self to the surface in a way only a garden can do.

Over time, I have learned what it takes to feed and create the garden and self that brings my most authentic self alive. Year after year, I naturally pursue understanding the bigger picture of myself and the garden so that both can bring me more joy and peace in this modern world. Nevertheless, I still see myself as that child in my grandfather's garden or the young woman who was brought back to her roots by feeling that fresh warm soil between her toes once again in that first garden. That electricity that unfolds in the beginning again, and within it, I find myself holding on to my curiosity and enchantment for what it is to be alive.

Listening to the rain fall on this spring morning, all I hold is the desire of a beginner. Sure, I know how to do things I didn't do years ago, but I am not going to entertain the world's desire to steal the beauty of tender beginnings away from me. I know there is bliss in not knowing how it all will go and excitement in the things we cannot predict. I am too aware now of the beauty that is stolen by setting unreasonable expectations that ultimately suppress curiosity.

I probably will have many things go differently than I expect this year, just as I always do, but just like the Robin who builds her new nest not knowing the storms she may face, I will blindly trust my instincts with the belief in the new life it will bring.