This is what I wrote that was chosen, among many other beautiful pieces, to be published in Seasonings. I hope you like it.
What you reap is what you sow.
It is a soft evening in the latter part of May, and there’s a crescent moon dangling behind the misty veil of high cloud towards the east. I come out to sit in the dusk of this evening, in my back yard, by my gardens, to breathe in all the joys of spring that we are offered time and time again.
Gardening in its entire spectrum gives peace and fulfillment to so many. Just think. Take some dirt, add some seeds and water and sun, and this elixir produces beauty and bounty for anyone willing to take the time. To many who ask “why bother?”, perhaps it is quite simply reaping what you have sown.
Reaping, harvesting and gathering any matter of treasures from your garden is the handheld fruition of labour. It is the proof of what you can do. An edible essay from the ground. It might be a delicate salad of spring greens picked right before you eat, drizzled with a subtle blend of oil and spices, some zingy radishes on the side. Or a bouquet of proud tulips, with their audacity of primary colours or sleepy hues of pinks, slowly leaning backwards over the lip of the vase, all too soon dropping their petals one by one like forgotten dreams. The harvest might just be a sensual delight, like the wind rushing past the tops of the trees that stand guard around us. Perhaps it is seeing a Rufous hummingbird, showing up at the feeder at dusk for a quick snack before bed, the muted glint of ruby at his throat still visible in the waning light.
I’m still a bit of a novice gardener. My know-how is just starting to amass. Already, though, I have learned the simple joy of pulling a carrot from the earth. Reaching out and plucking a sweet plum off the tree and letting the juice of it drip down your chin. Or serving up a mound of just-picked green beans smothered in butter, and hearing them squeak between your teeth. This is the ultimate local diet; one of your own doing. It is a gift of quiet prosperity. Riches, not in material things, but of goodness delved from your own earth.
The choice is always up to you. Whether you grow a few flowers or plant a massive vegetable garden, it doesn’t really matter. It is the unpretentious bliss, the soil beneath your nails, the rhythmic tick of a sprinkler. Big or small, extravagant or austere, it is simply put, yours.
The moon has disappeared now, behind a dark cloud, the wind foretelling of a Kootenay spring storm that is coming our way. It’s not so easy to see anymore, either. The dusk is giving way to night. I get up reluctantly, relishing the last kiss of the night air on my skin and go inside.