Two weeks ago, we stared the garden. In the raised beds we planted cucumbers and
four varieties of beans. We planted
popcorn, too, from the crop of a friend.
We tucked tiny seeds—tomatoes and onions and herbs of all sorts—into
peat pots and set them in the front window of the house. And then we waited.
Every morning, when I come downstairs, I check outside to
see what’s growing in our little garden.
Have the peas sprouted overnight?
The squash? Every morning, I see nothing except for the
stalwart strawberries—leftovers from last year’s garden.
I take my coffee and check the little rows of peat pots
catching the eastern sun slanting through the window. Nothing there, either.
But then, two days ago, I noticed a tomato sprout at least half
an inch tall. How did it get so big
without my noticing? And again yesterday,
I saw another plant stretching two tiny leaves towards the sun.
This morning, I examine my seedlings closely—The warmth and
water have awakened the onions, two narrow strips of green unfurling their
I part the curtain and watch the elementary school kids—dressed
in yellows and blues and greens and reds—heading for the bus. Three tulips have joined the daffodils in my
front bed and purple hyacinths encircle the trees in the lawn. A woodpecker hammers upon a tree.
Spring costumes herself in the vibrant colors in celebration
of the season.
“Did you read that email from the home school group?” one of
my friends asks.
I’d seen it. But I’d
paid it no attention.
I go back to read it.
The email promotes an upcoming workshop for teenagers. It promises to teach them how to defend their
religion to others. The leader promises
to costume himself in the religions of “the others”—other religions presumably
dangerous, presumably wrong. There were
several religions listed as one of the others.
Mine was among them. But even if
it hadn’t been, I would have taken offense.
Because the leader of this group is sowing the seeds of mistrust;
setting out hatred like the buds on a tree.
I delete the email and head outside to check on the garden. In the background, a symphony of birds sings. A tiny cucumber unfolds her arms and lays
them gingerly against the mound of soil into which she was planted.
This post was linked to Yeah Write.
Labels: Creative non-fiction, Gardening