How to be a Gardener all Your Life

My wife is a gardener. She has what most people call a "green thumb." She is good with plants and in return, plants seem to be good with her.

Every spring and summer she swings into action. First come the little green plastic "pots" in which seedlings sprout. Then she makes trips to the gardening stores to find new "babies" for her garden. Many times she comes home excited to have found some new plant. These she lines up out of the weather until it is safe to plant them in the ground. When the weather finally does warm and she feels we are safely beyond likelihood of a frost, into the ground they go.

This is her favorite activity in the world. Planting and arranging plants is hard work, but she revels in the labor. Hours go by. I might disappear on my bike for a couple hours and come home to find her somewhere else in the garden. The sun seems to follow her movements. Or else she follows the sun. This is what the woman does. She brings our little plot of land to life.

It's not her thing to "show off" her garden on garden walks or other public events. Having gone on a number of garden walks ourselves, we've considered doing that, then voted against it. That's just not why she gardens.

Occasionally a group of people passing our house will wander into the yard to have a peek at my wife's garden. We'll invite them onto the property, and that's when my wife kicks into gear. We call them "garden tours." She hasn't given that many over the years, but we have made some new friends in the process. Other gardeners recognize her skill at organizing and nurturing plants. Occasionally the garden hits its stride and looks like pure art from the street. I think of a moment last year when a combination of low-growing pale purple phlox lay like carpets in a semicircle holding other small purple flowering plants. When the sun hit this little section of garden in the morning it just sang.

Our back yard garden is a favorite haunt of our back door neighbor's children, who find bugs and interesting plants to ponder. Even as these children have aged and lost a bit of absolute wonder, they still enjoy checking on what "Aunt Linda" has growing.

In deep summer the garden hums at twilight. Lightning bugs rise from her plants and bats scoot over the tops of coneflowers catching insects only they can detect.

By August it is sad to see the rich pattern of lilies fade to rusted husks. Then hints of fall emerge. When fall really hits, a shower of goldenrod and other flowers pops up. Then purplish asters and white phlox. Autumn clematis blooms on the fence. A morning glory climbs and crests the arch. Then we hope that warm summer days continue into fall, for the blue morning glories and moonflowers make every morning a new joy.

Finally it all ends in September. Frost hits. Things wilt. The potted plants hold our only hope. We move them into sunlight. They attract bees, who seem to sense their doom, frantic, hungry for nectar.

She resigns herself that glory has waned. We clean out pots and clear out patches of scratchy stems. Winter comes. She retreats to her gardening magazines, plotting for next year.

Her garden is her faith the year round, expressing wholeness in the process of living.

I simply like how it makes her feel.