Approximately five months ago, I wrote this piece about the manic, messy, madness of the springtime garden. As I said at the time, every spring is like that, and given a choice, I would have it no other way. Winter stretches here in Toronto, and sometimes it is longer, colder, and more deprived of greenery and revitalizing, earthy smells than I can stand. I’ve lived in this region for the 40+ years of my life so winter living is no new thing. I find ways to find contentment and joy in the coldest months, but I come alive and really thrive during the growing season. There are only so many growing seasons within one lifetime, and I strive to finish each one out feeling full, if not downright hung over on all of the things that make these few short months of growth in the garden so lush, alive, and wonderful. I love my garden. I love being in the garden. It is where I feel most vibrant and in touch with myself and the world.
Five months ago, I wrote about all of this, and how I was spending more time in the garden that spring than ever before. I was happy to be there. I was learning so much. I had ambitious plans. I was growing more things in pots than ever before — even more-so than when my garden was on a rooftop and everything was in pots. I had also expanded my tomato-growing operation into a nice-sized patch that a neighbour generously allowed me to use in her yard. I was alive. I was thriving and so was the garden. A garden takes years to mature and hit its stride, and at five years in mine had reached the sweet spot. It was the best spring season it had ever had. I was very happy and proud. And then, just after the summer solstice, I got very, very sick.
I’m not going to go into details of the illness here, but it was of the sort that had me bedridden for stretches of time and unable to do what I love to do most during the growing season: be in the garden. Some days I was lucky if I could make it to the upstairs window that looks out over the yard. It hurt to be so physically close, yet so far away. On the days that my symptoms abated, I took advantage as best I could to get out there and connect with a garden that was slowly looking unrecognizable to me.
With so many plants gone to seed, a golden finch visited the garden for the first time this year and took advantage of the bounty.
In the beginning, I optimistically assumed that I would bound back and be well again in no time. It was easy to tell myself that this was only temporary and that all I had to do was hold it together because eventually I’d be back out there to finish out the season. Davin helped tremendously during this time in keeping up with the daily work of watering the myriad of containers. He was a trooper all around as he was working full time, taking care of me and the dog, and taking care of the garden. But when the August heat amped up, things started to slide. I recall one particular evening after about a week or so spent in bed without visiting the garden. I slowly dragged my weak, pathetic body out there to look around. I was not feeling well. My skin had taken on a grey palor. I had suddenly, and inexplicably become ultra sensitive to light and was dizzy and unbalanced all of the time. I often felt unstable on my feet as if I were floating and careening over the ground, sort of like a boat on choppy, open water. I’d lost a lot of weight and my clothes had started to hang off of my limbs. With time I came to identify as some sort of sad fictional vampire: pale, ghostly, and living most of my life in the dark. I was a stranger inhabiting a body I would not have chosen, and as I walked into the garden I was met with a sight that was no longer recognizable as mine either.
I belong to the garden; it doesn’t belong to me.
Some plants had grown feral in my absence. They were monstrous and many-tentacled creatures, blocking the light to their shorter, less ambitious neighbours, suffocating and killing many off. Others were wilted, bone dry, or entirely fried to a crisp from the unrelenting heat and drought. It doesn’t take container-grown plants long to lose the fight in these conditions, and while many of my potted plants are tough-as-nails cacti and succulents, many of those that are not just didn’t make it through. I’ve lost my share of plants during my years as a gardener, but this was not like anything I had ever experienced.
I looked around, took in as much as I could bear, and then I wept. The word “wept” makes it sound as if what came out of me was poised and gentile. No, this was an ugly, messy, deranged cry. It was loud and pained. I knew the neighbours could hear, but I was beyond caring about a public face. My body had fallen apart and at that point I still didn’t have the help I needed or a decent picture of what was happening. I was terrified, lost, and at that moment I felt that what had been lost was too much. It’s easier to handle loss when you have your health, your mind, and a grounding. My body and the life I had created were slipping away and now it felt like the garden had too. This is a complicated thing to write about without sounding like ownership: my body, my life, my garden. The garden is a piece of earth that I tend and where I find my grounding, but I do not own it. I belong to the garden; it doesn’t belong to me. And yet, we use the word “garden” because the space is tended and cultivated by us. Left to its own devices, the garden would be something else entirely. I won’t deny that my hand is in that space, but I also think it is healthier to be realistic and acknowledge that I won’t be here forever. This piece of earth will far outlast me. What I do here should not be about total service to my singular desires and needs.
Over my years as a gardener I have developed an appreciation for the wildness that can occur within a cultivated space if we are willing to let go a little. I’ve found that my role as a gardener has moved away from a need to control and more towards finding a balance between when to intervene and when to let things be. Allowing space for wildness and mess has been very liberating for me and I have become prouder of the garden as it has evolved into a small Eden that supports an ever-mounting and sometimes astonishing diversity of insects and creatures. In its own way this sickness has propelled me forward still into that mindset of letting go of control. I am messy. The garden is messy. This is real life. The garden is my grounding and my teacher. It helps me grow, possibly more than help it. Its message for me always seems to come back to this: let go.
That said, there is a line between wildness and the destruction that I witnessed that day in my garden. I am responsible for the plants that I put there and they were gone. However, I know too that there was some ego involved in my reaction. I was having such a great garden year and had such plans, such high hopes for where it would be as the seasons progressed. To go from someone who makes and does things to a nearly unmoving lump in an unrecognizable body… it shattered my image of myself, and I suppose my connection with the garden has made it so at times I do see myself reflected in it. This off balance, over run, messy, half dead, grossly entangled eyesore was another physical embodiment of what I had become. All I could see was loss.
In everything bad there is always good. Through the months that I have been sick I have tried to find those silver linings. Friends have stepped up in ways I could never imagine and showed their support whenever they could. I know I am loved. I have a partner who loves me in sickness and in health and who has taken care of me through what has been, so far, the very worst of times. I am still alive. Through the worst of this I would sometimes try to quiet my mind at night with meditations by Jon Kabat Zinn, Mindfulness Meditation for Pain Relief.* One thing that stood out for me was when he said something to the effect of, If you’re still breathing than your body is doing more right than wrong. That was very reassuring during a time when it felt like my body had failed me and I it. I am still breathing.
The garden is still breathing, too. Many plants died, but many, many more lived. I could see that more clearly once I moved past the initial shock of the loss and my own psychological baggage. I belong to the garden, but the garden is not me. Every spring brings with it a renewal and a chance to start again. Even now, it is only fall and the garden continues on. It’s alive. It’s just fine without me for now. By this time next year it will be like none of this even happened. Providing his own reassurances, Davin has reminded me many times that there will be more years to garden. There will be more springs. The garden will be here waiting. We’re both a bit shell-shocked and worn, but we’re going to be okay. We may even thrive.
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* As an aside, mindfulness meditation has been a lifesaver through this ordeal. I have never been able to sit still and consequently was never successful at meditating until now. I always said that gardening and walking were my meditations in motion because I can’t sit. Well, now I can. I have listened to a ton of guided meditations through these last four months and I have become a big fan of Jon Kabat Zinn’s voice and style, which is not put upon or affected. There’s no cheesy music or outer space sounds. It’s just his voice, soothing and reassuring. My favourite meditations (body scan and sitting meditation) are on the CD, Guided Mindfulness Meditations and I suspect that this practice will continue to be a part of my life going forward. Mindfulness Meditation is, in part, about giving yourself time and space to pay attention and just be. I was never able to do that before unless I was moving. So I suppose this is a small gift that being so ill has given me.
I’m a long-time reader, gardener and blogger and I so loved this beautifully written piece. I relate to our garden being so intertwined with our ego, our purpose and our ambition. I wish we lived closer so I could show up with my felcos and garden gloves. There is never a garden as great as next season’s garden. I’m looking forward to watching it continue to evolve.
Thank you. Yes, it was a loss of a therapy and a connectedness that I really needed during illness, but there is also the ego and having to find a way to let go of that and let it be what it is right now.
Thank you for this beautiful and quite heartwrenching post. I think there are a lot of us who have experienced serious illness in the last year will identify very strongly. Others who have not may look at their gardens a little differently.
Thanks for commenting Jennifer. Serious illness certainly changes things. I’ve had some inklings as to what it would be like as a gardener, but now that I’ve experienced it myself…
Dear Gayla, my body crumpled on me a couple of years ago and left me in a similar state to you. It was devastating, and I really had to grieve the loss of my strength and endurance. Wishing you peace in this very difficult time, and true, deep, lasting healing. xo
Hi Gayla,
I lost my dad September 9th of this year and I have to say that your writing resonated with me deeply. It was very touching. I too have had a rough summer as the effects of his brain cancer caused me to prioritize my life on June 17th to be exact…and my garden became massively simplified in the process. Needless to say my pride and grand plans were humbled. I have also had to learn to let go, but I was franticly doing all that I could to help my dad be as comfortable and peaceful as possible. I made him a mala on the blue moon with his special beads so he had a special tool for meditation. His mantra was from Tibet…Om Mani Padme Hum. People are still asking me about the mala as he talked about it so much. Anyway, I am glad to hear that you are on the mend! I enjoy your thoughtful posts and presence here. May you be well and flourish! Best wishes to you!
I’m so sorry for your loss.
Ah. I know this. I had a wonderful, flourishing garden I was so proud of. Then my health failed me too. 3 years of it. All that is left is a large patch of stubborn raspberry bushes that I am so thankful are still surviving. This fall, I went out and cleaned my poor garden space out. I cried sometimes because all that was left after 3 years was weeds. I am now well and decided to take some small steps to rebuild. I planted garlic. That small deed lightened my spirits.
I wish you better health and I really appreciated this article. :)
I too am grateful for the toughness of raspberries. Mine kept producing. In fact, I just ate a few this morning. The last of the season. That garlic will be a wonderful surprise come spring and summer. Excellent choice! Here’s to healing
So glad to hear your voice again on your blog. I am so sorry about your horrible illness, especially during the growing season. Glad to hear some healing is happening for you.
For what is is worth, the summers of 2013 and 2014 were especially painful in the mental health department for me, mainly related to the birth of my (wonderful) daughter. I could not garden, and yet, it seemed every other stupid new mother could somehow manage a garden, canning, freezing, tending, AND parenting. But I could not. I felt like a failure on many levels and I missed my garden terribly. I just watched it become an ugly bed of weeds for TWO SEASONS.
And then I got better. We moved and I was able to plant perennials this spring in our yard, I could weed, I planted seeds under the grow lights in our basement. The gardening joy returned and I was so happy to enjoy it again. I hope the same will happen for you.
Thank you. In times of vulnerability it can be difficult not to compare ourselves with others. Glad you’ve got your gardening life back.
Oh Gayla, I’m so sorry you’ve been laid low. I didn’t know you were going through this. I read your post with a feeling of familiarity. It’s such a wrench when you can’t tend the things you love and they die. It is real pain.
Glad that the Kabat Zinn is helping. Read his book on mindfulness years ago and it really helped me.
I love the picture of the goldfinch, and the reminder that a wild, untended garden has its own rewards.
Thanks Sarah. I really only lost annuals and many of them will be back next year. I think the hardest part is the loss of time and potential experiences.
I was deeply touched and appreciative of your beautifully written story. As a gardener who has slowly lost strength and mobility to do what I love most, I understand the loss and the grief you are experiencing. Your article helped me to process what is happening in my own life. Thank you so much. I am sending love and light to you.
Sending healing thoughts back your way.
“I belong to the garden; it doesn’t belong to me.” This is a wonderful piece. Gayla, I hope that your ailment is just temporary.
Dear Gayla-
It sounds like 2015 was a nightmare summer for one who receives a year’s worth of rejuvenation from the warm months. I would feel crushed, arranging a collection and then seeing it suffer, unable to step in and “save” things. These thoughts have occurred to me, as I stretch my own personal resources and continue to take on more and more garden chores, “What if I could not keep up this pace?” It increases each season. Initially, more plants = more reward, more learning, more meals, more entertainment, more beauty. But aging joints and ebbing strength are serious factors.
With your losses perhaps you will be able to try something new you did not have space for in the past. Small consolation. Your visual distress probably did not hasten your physical recovery, but without that glimpse into the bounty or wildness, you may have felt even more isolated, running on empty without the expected “fuel”.
I can’t pretend to know how bad you felt, only how I would be devastated by similar circumstances. You made it through now, Victory!
Can I send you any seeds? I have a gargantuan collection freshly harvested, ranging from the ubiquitous to the weird. It won’t hurt a bit to ask for something specific. Email me if you wish, I’d be thrilled to share. Thinking of you, Beverly
It was very unexpected. I’ve thought about what it might be like in the future as I age and can’t keep up. I wasn’t expecting anything like this, but it happened. As mentioned in another comment, I really only lost annuals. If I lost any perennials they were few and far between. And most of the annuals will self seed and come back next year. It could have been a lot worse, but it was still hard to reconcile in the moment. Thanks so much for your offer of seed.
I am really glad to hear that you are getting better. And you never know – maybe spring will surprise you…. countless times I’ve thought I’ve lost a beloved garden treasure only to find that it was not quite as gone as I thought… and a restful winter had unexpectedly healed things.
You’re right. I have a variegated yucca that I am always sure didn’t make it through the winter and at some point in the season its leaves start to show.
Big hugs, Gayla!!! My prayers and thoughts of strength, healing and peace your way.
I was wondering where you’d gone. I kept checking my Feedly site, looking for a new post (never mind that I haven’t blogged since March), and there was nothing. I am glad to hear your words again. Hope this doesn’t happen to you again.
Not sure if it’s my age, but gardening has changed me in ways I never would have expected. We bought a house a few years ago, from an old old couple, and our neighbours on either side were old old people (now they’ve moved and we have new new people), and almost everything I plant, prune, or build makes me think “I wonder what will happen to this when I’m gone? Will anyone love this the way I do? Or will it go feral, and eventually be mowed down to make way for something tidier?”
Gardening offers a lot of opportunities for learning about ourselves, life… I find that part of it comes out more and more with time and experience.
I am so sorry you went through that, but so happy you are doing better. I have had 2 major medical issues in the last 10 years. The first was in winter, so the garden was not an issue. The second was in summer and my garden suffered as I did, but we both made it through. Keep going!
Welcome back. I was wondering why you hadn’t posted anything in a while.
I wish you many many more springs, and I hope the next one will be better than ever.
Gayla, I am so sorry for what you have gone through and for what it has cost you! I have fibromyalgia, chronic fatigue syndrome, ADD, multiple chemical sensitivities, I had a hysterectomy 6 years ago… I am mostly housebound because of the chemical sensitivities. For years I was often too dizzy/weak/exhausted to even make toast. On my bad days I would have the symptoms of a stroke. My husband has been a saint, but most people have not understood or been patient, so I live with a lot of social isolation. I can relate to your sense of grief and loss of control over your body.
I’m glad that you are trying to embrace your “messiness”. You have lost much, but you also have an opportunity to experience life in ways that most people do not. Seek out beauty in unexpected places (most people are too busy). Delight in colours. You have (and are going through) a lot. DRINK DEEPLY of whatever feeds you. You need the emotional/spiritual nourishment. If possible, explore other avenues of creative expression (I write poetry).
Yes, you need to grieve and mourn and be angry. And your range of options is different now. But you can still CHOOSE to create a happy life. You are already re-defining things. Create where you can. Laugh when you can. Love. Be playful. Speak up when you need to (your limitations do NOT diminish your dignity — your voice is entitled to be heard!). And keep your eyes open for beauty that you can drink deeply of.
My heart breaks for you with what you are going through…
Your post touched me. Thank you for being so real in your articles. I love gardening , too. I find it very helpful most of the times. Love to be outside my house without my phone or any sign of society except my flowers. Greets!
I’m so sorry!
A beautiful garden can certainly inspire and bring joy. Thanks for sharing!
Your writing in this post resonated with me. I found myself relating even though illness is not what has kept me separated me from my beloved garden. Not having the ability to pop out into the green and putter whenever I feel the need has made me acutely aware of how much of a blessing/paradise/therapy/meditation the garden really is to me. The pictures of your abundant garden have helped me through many a moment of garden longing. I am so glad to hear you are on the mend.
Gosh! I was wondering why I hadn’t heard from you! I recently lost my mum in law andtending to her affairs meant that both our gardens went unattended and unharvested. Do you need help putting your garden to bed for the winter? Got an extra bale of straw if you need it. Seeds too!
Glad to hear that you are back! Being outside can really do you wonders and hopefully it will help you in your recovery.
I’m really glad you are feeling better. I did not have an illness as severe as yours, but I was struggling a few weeks ago with dizziness, feeling like I was floating, headaches, weakness, lack of focus and ability to do anything, and even an irregular heartbeat. I felt like my body was caving on me, overreacting to any kind of food I ate. I knew part of it was stress, but after some research wondered if it was also due to anemia, which I have struggled with in the past. I started taking an iron supplement again and it made a difference, I think. I have much more energy and focus now.
We also had a lot of backyard work to do which meant we didn’t get to gardening as much, and my garden took a turn for the worst, but strangely enough, I am starting to get excited again about starting seeds. I was encouraged by the mint that continued to grow and even lettuce that re-seeded itself. I felt like my garden and God were showing me a deep measure of grace.