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More on Gardening and Writing

May 20, 2009 By 8 Comments

Gardening is frustrating.

Worms and snails eat my pepper plants. Bunnies munch on my corn. Fire ants bed down in my veggie beds. Squirrels dig up my plants. And the broccoli I should’ve harvested two weeks ago is a one-inch stalk.

Gardening is frustrating.

"At least you’re learning," both my mom and mother-in-law tell me.

Learning what? That’s what I’d like to know. That I haven’t grown enough peas to make up one satisfying bite? That a beautiful tomato plant does not necessarily produce beautiful tomatoes? That nature is against me?

I’ll tell you one thing I’m learning.

Besides a deeper insight into the Fall, gardening teaches me about writing.

Composite image to illustrate the diversity of...

Image via Wikipedia

I’ve written about this before. But I learn more everyday.

I’ve learned that you can either stop at the obstacles or push further. I can either accept that I don’t have a green thumb and buy all my veggies, or I can ask a gardening expert for advice and plant again.

Good writing doesn’t come without obstacles. Good, published writing doesn’t come with entire wars. Calvin Coolidge said, "Nothing
in the world can take the place of Persistence. Talent will not;
nothing is more common than unsuccessful men with talent. Genius will
not; unrewarded genius is almost a proverb. Education will not; the
world is full of educated derelicts. Persistence and determination
alone are omnipotent. The slogan ‘Press On’ has solved and always will
solve the problems of the human race."

So what can we as writers do? 

Plant again.

Psst–If you find this post interesting and think others might as well, would you mind taking a minute to stumble it? It would mean a lot to me.
Filed Under: frustrations, gardening, obstacles, writing

The Creative Life: Gardening

April 21, 2009 By 7 Comments

Those crazy peas. Look at them winding around each other, clinging like they can hold each other up. I shake my head with an amused smile and guide their limbs so they can grab onto the trellis.

The squirrels–not so amusing (although I’m sure after I’ve covered my beds with cayenne pepper, they’ll provide plenty of entertainment). More holes! And my poor seedlings. Another two bite the dust.

Today is Earth Day, as you may well know, and the perfect way to celebrate Earth Day is with gardening, a joy I’ve recently discovered. Gardening combines the fun of getting your hands dirty with the wonder of watching seeds become ripe tomatoes with the pleasure of beholding beauty you’ve helped cultivate.

In gardening, we work alongside God. We can’t make our flowers grow (50 points for song and musical reference), but we work in joy as we create spaces for their beauty. I can’t point to the tomato and claim that I made this, but I can claim to have grown it.

We taste the pleasure that Adam and Eve must have felt in their garden, and we foretaste the beauty of the new earth, lush with healing fruit. God never intended us to sit back and watch. We participate, and my hands submerged in a mix of soil, compost, and, yes, cow manure, I feel a bit of what God must have felt when he pronounced his creation good.

A new tradition: the past three years, my mom has come up for a week to help me with my garden (she knows I’m hopeless without her!). The first year, we started a small flower garden in the front yard. The second year, we added containers of tomatoes, peppers, and herbs (and one of artichoke, but since nothing came of that, I prefer not to mention it). This year, my husband built three raised beds, we ordered dirt from the city (did you know they deliver?), and my mom and I sprinkled in seeds of peas, squash, cucumbers, peppers, spinach, corn, green beans, cantaloupe, watermelon, carrots, lettuce, onions, and half a dozen herbs.

(Okay, so technically, a couple of the above were transplants, although most were seeds, and while my mom and I did quite a bit of it, not all of those could be planted in the week she was here. If you must know the truth.)

Daily, I visit my garden. What seedlings will I find? What new growth? You think me impatient (and, yes, I have impatiens). You think me naive to look for something new everyday. But it’s there: a new daily joy. Ah, I love my garden. 

As an added bonus, a sneak peek into my raised bed vegetable garden:

Psst–If you find this post interesting and think others might so as well, would you mind taking a minute to stumble it? It would mean a lot to me.

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Filed Under: beauty, creativity, cultivation, Earth Day, flower garden, flowers, fruit, gardening, the creative life, vegetable garden, vegetables

What Gardening Teaches Me about Writing

April 1, 2009 By 8 Comments

Some of you may know that a couple of years ago, I began gardening. Two years ago, I put in a small flower bed, and discovered a love for cultivating beauty in this way. Last year, I added containers with tomato plants, bell peppers, artichoke (which never grew), and herbs. I discovered a love for eating fresh from my backyard (or, side yard, rather).

This year, we’ve expanded. My husband built a few raised beds, and I’ve added carrots, cucumbers, peas, broccoli, lettuce, spinach, onions (sweet and green), green beans, and squash to last year’s repertoire (senza that stubborn artichoke).

Grocery Store Green Bell Peppers

Image via Wikipedia

My endeavor fills me with anticipation and fear: Look at the tiny seedlings emerging from the ground from nothing but that seed I planted! one moment, and What the bleep! Clouds and clouds! I need more sun! These veggies will never grow! the next (accompanied by the appropriate amount of hand-wringing–my mother tells me now I know the life of a farmer).

But more than that, my endeavor with gardening teaches me about writing.

Novelist Valerie Sayers says, "Whether their eyes are on God or not, all writers worth reading go out on the muck, in the muck, and stir up threat, possibility, celebration crisis" (Valerie Sayers, "The Muck" in Image, no. 60, p. 107).

Gardening requires I thrust myself into the muck. Sometimes this brings delight in the way a mudpie does to a four-year-old. Sometimes I think with disgust, "Ah, that’s cow manure beneath my finger nails." But in the muck I am.

Gardening offers hope, but no guarantees. Every day, I go out there. Has anything grown? Is anything new? But until I pluck the fruit (or vegetables, as it were), I don’t know if it’ll work.

Gardening requires tender care. I can’t force anything, though I’d like to. I can buy a farmer’s almanac, read up on what’s best for my areas and the how-tos, and follow the rules, but I can’t make my garden grow (50 points for naming the song and musical that references).

The elements may be against me, but I must press on. For example, we had a freeze the other night, a fairly late freeze for the Dallas area. I followed all the planting instructions of what to plant when. I prepared for the freeze. I did everything right, but I lost my cucumbers to the bitter night (as well as several flowers–impatiens and potato vines, mainly). The elements are against me. Isn’t this the consequence of the Fall? But God commands us to continue with our work, to press on. The rejections may pile on; life may intrude (silly bills!), but write I must.

And sometimes the plants are heartier than I expect. The freeze, for example, only took my cucumbers. It appears all other plants are intact. Torrential rains failed to wash away my seeds. Peas sprout, though I was told, "Good luck with those finicky plants!" (Although we’ll see if I harvest vegetables from them when the time comes.) They remind me of those obstinate characters: They have a mind of their own, and sometimes that’s frustrating, but sometimes it brings unexpected pleasures.



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Filed Under: aesthetics, art, gardening, writing

The Gardener

March 24, 2008 By 1 Comment

Because she thought he was the gardener…

The Gardener hung on the cross to atone for the gardeners. On the third day, he rose from the dead, conquering the death and evil that swept through his garden.

He prunes us. He snips away the deadness.

He gives us life. We, the branches, suck nutrients, minerals, and the water of life from the Vine. The Gardener became the firstfruits of the resurrection for which the whole garden groans.

It groans.

We groan.

Someday we will be like the Gardener. We will join in the resurrection. The garden will be resurrected and transformed.

Even now, He begins his transforming work, snipping, pruning, watering, feeding. He teaches us out to be gardeners, how to take care of the garden. He gives us the shears and points. "Remove that deadness," he says. "Take away that oppression, that disease." So we join the Gardener in his work. 

Sometimes we rejoice at the riddance of the ugliness. Sometimes we yank and yank, but the roots have infiltrated deeply, and it takes more work, causes more calluses, needs more tools than we expected. Sometimes we say, "But, Gardener, it still looks pretty."

He hands us the shears. "Remove that deadness," he says. He prunes it from our lives. He prunes it from the lives of the oppressed. He prunes it from the lives of the sick. He prunes it from the lives of the powerful. And he fertilizes and waters and tenderly lifts the buds.

Each of us flower the cross. Each of us, individual blooms, together become a bouquet of new life.

Because she thought he was the gardener…

Filed Under: gardening, Jesus, resurrection

The Theology of Gardening

November 20, 2007 By Leave a Comment

It was time for some fall planting.
I’m
new at this whole gardening thing. In other words, I have no idea what
I’m doing. Good thing my mom’s brilliant with these things. Last week,
I spent a few days in their neck of the woods (and I mean that
literally), and helped my mom do some of her gardening. Very
instructive. For example, I learned that pansies and snap dragons are
winter flowers.
So home again, home again this weekend and time to
work on my miniature garden (which never feels miniature when you’re
working on it).
I think I like gardening. Besides getting to sink
your hands into dirt (or, in Texas, clay, which passes for dirt), you
have time to think, pray, and sing (yes, out loud–don’t worry; the
neighbors have known for a while about the conditions of my mind). And
it struck me. God’s work in me is a lot like gardening.
The process spanned three days. My process, that is, not God’s. Although wouldn’t it be nice?
Saturday,
I bought all the supplies with the intention of planting in the
afternoon. Except we needed to run this errand and that errand. Okay,
so no gardening done Saturday. Still, supplies were bought.
Sunday,
after an afternoon nap that went longer than planned, I got out there.
Alas, our big trees (which I adore, so this is not a complaint, mind
you) had stripped their leaves all over our front yard, including in my
garden. You’d think they were five (or my husband) leaving (leafing? I
know, I know) their clothes all over the floor. Sheesh. So I spent most
of my time on Sunday clearing out the leaves and the acorns and the
pecans, knowing that in another week, I’ll have to go back there and
clear it out again.
Which brings me to astute observation number
one: does God get tired of clearing out my old dredge, knowing He’s
going to have to do it again? And again. And again.
I also had to
pull out the summer flowers–the vinias and the zinnias (I sound like
Dr. Seuss) and the daisies. I hated doing it. They still thrived with
the weather being what it has been (spring-like). But I knew (or
rather, my mother knew and told me) that they wouldn’t last much
longer. They wouldn’t make it through the next season. So I pulled them
out and cut back the potato vine and the honeysuckle. The potato vine
and honeysuckle look like they’ve had a crew cut.
Astute observation
number two: does it make God sad to pull out things that seem beautiful
in our lives but that He knows won’t last? He has to pull out the old
sometimes to make room for the new. Does He ever not want to dig out
some flowers in our lives? Or prune, even though He knows that’s
what’ll allow us to thrive later?
Sunday was also my day of pain.
The sun had set, and the light dimmed, although I didn’t realize it
because I was busy at work and busy chatting on the phone with a
friend. My mom had given me an agorapantha plant (which I’m spelling
wrong, but I can’t find how to actually spell it), and I took a knife
to it to cut it into at least two plants. Suddenly, sting, sting.
I looked down at my knees to see a colony of red ants attacking. I
could almost hear the trumpet: Charge! I ran into the house, peeling
off my pants as I went (hoping the neighbors weren’t watching).
"Fire ants! Fire ants!" I yelled and dashed into the shower.
Now,
if you live or have lived in Texas, you know the two bains of gardening
here are the aforementioned clay (which is not conducive to growing
living things other than roly polies) and fire ants. Fire ants inflict
much pain. Later, that pain becomes a maddening itch (although I’ll
contend it’s not as bad as fleas).
Needless to say, I was done
gardening for the day. The following day, when I returned to the
garden, I found the knife sticking out of the agorapantha like an
abandoned crime scene.
Astute observation three: does God’s gardening in my life sometimes inflict pain upon Him?
Besides even the pain He endured on the cross? Does He hurt when I lash
out, not liking having a knife stuck in me one bit and sending out my
army of fire ants?
Finally, we’re at Monday. The final day (sort of) of my gardening process. Monday was my fun (as opposed to all claims in the song).
The ground was prepped, and I came armed with a drum of ant killer.
Before planting the seasonal pansies and snap dragons and dianthus,
though, I dug holes for my bulbs–tulip, daffodil, and hyacinth. I
don’t remember what I put where or what colors I bought. Which means
that come spring (hopefully), I’ll have a fun surprise waiting for me.
But it’ll be a long, long wait through the cold (or occasionally chilly
days here in Texas).
Astute observation number–what number are we
on?: I don’t want to wait. I’ve been through all this pain, this
pruning and clearing and digging, and I want the pretty now. But maybe
come spring, I’ll have a fun surprise waiting for me. I wonder, is God
ever pleasantly surprised by what comes up? (Scratch that last
question. I’m not in the mood to debate omniscience and sovereignty and
free will.)
After the bulbs, I put in my winter plants. This was the
easiest step and the most immediately gratifying. Voila! Beautifulness
on my front lawn. I went running yesterday and stood first for a couple
of minutes in front of my house, admiring my work. I like making things
beautiful, in music, in writing, in knitting, in gardening. That’s not
to deny the darkness of it, the tension without which resolve and
release in music means nothing, the conflict that makes the plot in
writing, the cramped hands in knitting, the tight hamstrings and fire
ant bites in gardening. But in the end, it’s beautiful, and I like
being a part of that.
I suspect that God enjoys making things beautiful. After all, He’s Creator. We get it from him (I learned it by watching you, alright?).

Filed Under: flowers, gardening, theology

My Own Arboretum

June 8, 2007 By Leave a Comment
This is what I’ve been up to, why I never even signed onto the internet yesterday (shocking).
I love flowers, but I’ve never been a gardener because (1) I don’t know what I’m doing, and (2) good golly, Miss Molly, it’s a ton of work! So my parents were in town yesterday, and I confiscated my mom and put her to work. We hauled 10 40 lb top soil bags, 3 garden soil bags (twice the size of above), 3 bags of mulch (same size as the latter mentioned), and 1 bag of potting soil. Not to mention those bricks. I’m a little sore, although not as much as I expected.
So what you see here was 24 hrs ago a slab of dirt with bits of grass here and there (that we dug up in hopes they’d reroot somewhere else). And now we have, ladies and gentleman, what is often referrred to as "curb appeal." If you look to the left, you can find a ladybug my niece painted for me.
This other shot is my front door, where now impatiens greet you (and tell you to hurry up and get in all ready and close the door behind you, where you born in a barn?).
I’ve always loved our backyard with the firebowl and tiki torches and aloe and basil and rosemary and the beginnings of an avocado tree and the even beginningser of a lime (or lemon, who can tell?) tree. And our patio where I often sit and type (and swat the flies). Now I love our front yard too!
Oh, and Erin, we planned on doing the newspaper/cardboard plan, but we forgot to buy newspaper and after one trip to WalMart, one to Sam’s, and two to Lowe’s (and the second trip consisting of two buys when we remembered something else we needed after unloading flowers into the truck), I could have cared less about the newspaper. I’m sure I’ll regret it later!
Filed Under: arboretum, gardening

Picture Perfect

March 30, 2007 By Leave a Comment
Okay, so how often do I post pictures? Usually, I’m too lazy, so savor the moment. I went to the Dallas Arboretum for their Spring Blooms with a writer, Jeanne (who is an amazing writer – her posts at The Master’s Artist often lead me to both prayer and laughter – and an even more amazing person). So here are some of my fave pics:


I love reds and oranges. They make me want to dance.


Did I mention that I love oranges?
This tree tells stories of lauging children and lovers and love lost and death and fairies.

Okay, so this one is actually my daffodils from my backyard. I’m so proud. The tulips are in front. I was too lazy to walk around.

And now I know why I don’t do more pics. This was a nightmare!!!
Filed Under: flowers, gardening

The Constant Gardener

March 15, 2007 By Leave a Comment
Chris has whipped out his green marker and is doing his best to color my thumb. Okay, so it’s a washable marker and it may take a while for this thing to stick, but we color on.
This past weekend, Chris and I planted strawberries, a couple different types of tomatoes, basil, and aloe vera. (And my daffodils are budding! Hopefully my tulips will follow suit.) Oh, and I planted a cutting from what I think is a rose bush, if I remember correctly.
Sigh. I feel so at-one with nature.
I love gardens and flowers. I could live at an arboretum. Chris and I camp several times a year (although we do the drive to the camp-site, not backpack in 3 miles), and I love spending those weekends seeing how great God is because of all this wonderfulness that He put around us.
In short, I love nature (except for snakes, of course, but that’s a biblical hatred – hey, if it weren’t for snakes, perhaps there would be no evil in this world).
I’m new to this gardening thing, but I’m liking it. I like feeling like nature and I are working together to glorify God.
Filed Under: gardening

Composting

February 27, 2007 By Leave a Comment
This past weekend I learned that my husband’s packrat tendencies come from his father, who gets it from his father. It’s a stagnant gene pool collecting everything.
Scared me to death.
Confession: I used to be a packrat. I thought everything had sentimental value and was worthy of putting away. No longer. Now I want to throw away everything except for leftovers in the fridge.
Chris: But I might need that someday.
Not if you don’t even remember that you have it because it’s in a pile with three million other unknown objects.
To be fair, he has done a lot this past year to clean up. He cleaned the office and threw away a lot. He cleaned the garage. Again, threw away a lot. We can now fit two cars in there! Yay! I really can’t hold this against him.
In our visit, his father said, hey, go through all this and take what you want.
Be afraid, be very afraid.
I have to say, though, that Chris limited himself. We came away with a stack of records (which I wanted more than he did – I’m a sucker for records), a working phonograph player (again, we both wanted it), old pictures, some paintings his grandmothers and great grandmothers did (none were really any good, to be honest), these blue glass telephone cap things (I don’t know, but I have to admit that they look cool), some random silver pieces that need some love, and a compost. So, I can’t complain. I can’t wait to set up the compost. I want to set it up right on the other side of the window above the sink so that I can just open the window and throw. And one of the records is an unopened Elvis record. I already have Abbey Road. (I stole it from my parents, although I’ve told them a dozen times I took it along with their Steppenwolf and Frank Sinatra. They get upset every time they “discover” this fact, which is about once every few years, though they don’t have a working record player.)
So I guess a little packratedness is good, but don’t tell Chris I said that. I’ll never hear the end or be able to throw anything out again.
Filed Under: gardening, house