I Want to Write Like I Garden

Finding joy and beauty in whatever does -- or doesn't -- grow.

I tried to grow zucchinis this summer. I started a plant from seed and was delighted when that seed burst into a gigantic, leafy plant, seemingly overnight. I watched it flower, over and over, big, yellow, trumpet-shaped petals that greeted me each morning as I stepped outside with my coffee. They were surprisingly vibrant for a mere vegetable, and I was impressed by how decorative the plant turned out to be.

Photo by Kasia Gajek on Unsplash

And then I watched my beloved flowers get eaten by squirrels, their petals shredded and strewn around the yard. 

I watched the plant get drowned by torrential rain. 

I watched it wither from neglect when I went away for two weeks. 

In short, I only managed to harvest a single zucchini, and even that one had a bite taken out of it by some greedy critter (or potentially my vegetable-loving dog). 

My tomatoes fared a bit better, until I went away for two weeks. They over-ripened, and what wasn’t eaten rotted on the vine. 

I was disappointed for a while, but I wouldn’t call my vegetable garden a failure. I tended to it as well as circumstances would allow, and I didn’t agonize over things over which I had very little control, like the weather and my work schedule. It’s also my first summer as the parent of a school-aged child. Previous summers, she’s gone to daycare just as she did the rest of the year, and nothing really changed in our routine. This year, everything changed, as my husband and I found ourselves hopping between day camps with alternating schedules, grandparent visits, extended campground trips, and trying to entertain a bored five-year-old while also holding down our full time jobs. 

It’s weird – to me, at least – that I’ve never been too personally invested in my garden. I view it as a grand experiment. What happens if I put this plant here, sow this variety of seed, use this size of pot? Will this plant come back next year? Is that one a weed or something I planted on purpose? I can’t remember what’s even in my garden most of the time. I have my crowning jewels – my hydrangea, with its big, puffy white blooms, and my peony, which has expanded to ten times the size I thought it would and always grants me the most decadent fuchsia flowers. Those two plants bring me joy every time I look at them, but I love that I don’t have to do much for them either. Once established, hydrangeas and peonies mostly take care of themselves. They give me lots of reward for very little effort. That, more than anything, might be why I love them so much. 

Today, while I was pulling weeds from one of the beds – weeds that have overtaken since I’ve neglected the garden for so long – and I found myself delighting to rediscover the plants I forgot I’d even put there, I wondered why I can’t treat writing the way I do my garden. As an experiment. As a discovery. As play. Why do I agonize over every line that I put down? Why do I beat myself up if a scene doesn’t come out the way I envisioned? Why am I forever feeling like the work I put in isn’t enough? Why do I feel such resistance to just starting? I’ve never felt resistance to tending to my garden. There are always countless tasks that need doing out there, and I tend to just pick something random – or head into whatever portion of the yard happens to be shaded at that moment – and that’s where I begin. And then I go until I get tired or the sun gets too hot or the mosquitoes come out. I don’t really care if I didn’t get “everything” done, because caring for a garden never actually ends. I stop when I get tired or want to do something else, and no matter how long I was out there, I feel good about my efforts. 

I want to approach writing with the same joy I do gardening. In short, I want to see it as something that, no matter what, is going to beautify my world – even when I don’t do it “right,” even when I make mistakes, even if life or circumstance force me to neglect it for a while. 

I started writing because I enjoyed it, and somewhere along the line I started taking it too seriously and the joy evaporated. I’m trying really hard to get that back. Because I want it to be more like my garden. I want to savour the joy of trying, seeing what I can create, then stepping back and staring at the results – no matter how big or small – and smiling at the loveliness of the thing that has grown.