On resting the garden
and intergenerational reciprocity.
Hey relative! For the month of December I am trying out a new publishing format. On Monday I will send out a new essay along with a note on what I am listening to, reading, and creating. There will be an additional Friday post for paid subscribers to include either an embodiment practice, or recipe. If you have questions, or feedback, I’d love to hear from you. Thanks!
At some point over the hot and humid summer, the garden got away from us. Most of what we planted grew beyond our expectations. The broccoli (Brassica oleracea) stalks with their tight head of curls nourished our bones. The okra (Abelmoschus esculentus) reached out to us often, sharing their antioxidant and ancestral magic. The tomatoes (Solanum lycopersicum) were abundant in their giving, offering sun-ripened flavor that is always good medicine for the heart. The pumpkins (Cucurbita) really surprised us this year with their generous growth and generative lessons. As I write, there is a pumpkin sitting across from me near a window. There is a steadiness to this relative that feels like a gentle grounding force. Their gifts are evident in the way that they choose to grow: close to the ground, securing their place in the world with the assistance of prickly leaves and stems that act as anchors and protectors.
This time of year, when the leaves change their sound and color, we are in the threshold of a cyclical contraction. The air is cool and dry, and the garden prepares herself for a winter rest. This year I noticed that the broccoli was the first to hunker down, and after the first frost, most of the tomatoes began to shrivel—the juices suckling back into the body of the fruit—leaving behind a wrinkled and smaller shell. As I look around, my eyes are full of seeds leftover from the bounty of the season. The plants have revealed their essence, letting us know that the work is far from over.
Realizing the gifts in front of me, I carefully pluck seeds of different shapes and sizes, storing them in any pocket I can find. Saving seed is a meditative practice, and, in my higher state of consciousness, I realize that we’ve cultivated mostly fruit-bearing plants this year. Instantly I recall the many butterflies, insects and other small relatives that visited our garden over the summer. It had not occurred to me, until this moment, that the sweetness in our garden had called them. I wonder now what this might mean for the soil: how will this season inform the next generation of plants?
When my partner and I decided to move back to my hometown we had a sense that we were being called. It was less of a decision, and more of a response. My father and mother were both ill at the time, and, although I had intended to start a doctoral program, moving back to the Midwest became the priority. Months before departing Texas we both expressed an interest in working at a community garden once we settled into our new routines. I had been volunteering at a local organic farm once a week, and my partner wished to reconnect with his ancestral roots by learning to garden. Other than looking for our own place, it was the only plan that we had. Within 3 months of moving across the country, to our delight, we found a gardening program at a local community organization. The program was funded by a Stinner Summit Grant, which provides funding to promising projects that focus on agroecology throughout Ohio. I didn’t realize it at the time, but being a part of this program was the best way to get reacquainted with my hometown. I learned a lot about my local food system, growing practices, running a Community Supported Agriculture program, and much much more. It also helped me to recall the lessons that I learned while working alongside my Grandmother in her garden. It is amazing what can be healed by going home, and reconnecting with the land.
After the year-long farming program we started our own garden at my parent’s house. At the time my father was still living, and it was a wonderful feeling to share sun-ripened tomatoes fresh from the vine with him. On both sides of my family, I come from avid farmers and gardeners, and in many ways this work is in my blood. I’ve been able to commune with my mother’s land in ways that I wish were accessible to me as a young person. The elder Maple tree that sits in the front of the yard—with roots that extend all the way into the back yard—has been a companion and teacher through the years. The moss that surrounds the house in every corner keeps the air humid, and also provides moisture for the garden. I often think about the life that is teeming within and around my mother’s home, and I am reminded how important it is that women and people of color remain stewards of the understory.
In 2017 the Working Group on discrimination against women and girls produced a position paper on insecure land rights for women. This paper affirmed what similar studies have shown:
“Stronger women’s rights to land and productive assets are linked to a wide range of benefits such as improved living conditions, better nutrition and food sovereignty, better health, higher earnings and individual savings, and more.”
At the start of the pandemic in 2020, there was growing interest in “back to the land” practices, especially farming and gardening. Low supplies and high demands yielded a need for people—with enough space and resources—to grow their own food. While there are many who have alway kept a garden as a means to cut down costs, remain subsistent, and engage mutual aid, it is certain that we will see more of this in the years to come as global economic systems continue to shift. This transformation has also opened up opportunities for people to learn about the legacy of Black and Indigenous farming within sustainable agriculture—lessons that will be of utmost importance as we continue to navigate uncertain times.
Every planting season brings me in closer relationship with the ecosystem of home, and the environmental conditions that have shaped my life to this point. As the land beneath my feet rests for the winter, I also move towards a state of stillness and quiet. I watch as the compost heap that sits on the side of the garden slowly transmutes back into earth. As I witness the breakdown, I write my thoughts in a journal. I make plans for the next season, and dream of what is possible.
This Friday’s missive will include an embodiment practice in honor of the Winter Solstice. Through the month I will be saving the practices and recipes in a catalogue available for all paid subscribers.
Listening
Paper Monday is a dynamic creative studio out of NYC that produces powerful storytelling. I am loving their podcast series Halfway North, a five-part audio story that was released this time last year.
Reading
I’ve been reading The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma, by Bessel Van Der Kolk, for a few months now. Admittedly, this text has taken me a while to get through as I find myself needing to process my own experiences with trauma as I read. I’ve made many notes in the margins to sort through, and reflect on, for years to come.
Creating
I’ve been adding small crafts like dried orange slices, and plant bundles with pine and lavender from the garden, to nearly all of the gifts that I have wrapped. Every time I make an arrangement, the process—and aromas—connect me with a sense of deep time.