Reflections on Gardening

As a kid, I hated yard work, the thought of it anyway. Raking all the leaves in the yard was impossible. Pulling weeds: infinite. Gardening? No, thanks! It wasn’t so much the work itself; it was the never-endingness of outdoor chores. Usually, when my parents and sisters went out to work in the yard, I remained indoors. I wanted to avoid the daunting yard work and much preferred to stay in the house and wash dishes; it was a finite job.

Today, I proudly announce that I don’t hate yard work anymore! Actually, it’s been for some time now — since I’ve had a yard really — that I’ve no longer minded the tasks of raking, pulling weeds, gardening. Honestly, I rather enjoy them. I just get down and start working, one weed at a time. And I find it’s when I do some of my best thinking.

Gardening, I’ve noticed, is a lot like writing a novel. Each section of our yard — the perennial gardens, the backyard, the garden near the big rock that collects windblown leaves, the cracks between the bricks of the walkway — requires attention, like the elements required in writing a book.

I often start with the perennial gardens near the driveway. They give the best impression; they’re the first things you might notice if you happen to drop by. And they make me happy, knowing I’ve created something beautiful in my yard. I spend time planting new hostas, digging up irises to find a better spot for them, moving creeping phlox to fill in empty spaces, and pulling up any early spring weeds that have started poking through. And then I let the plants do their magic. The perennial gardens are the story of my novel, the journey my character takes, the first thing you might notice when you begin to read.

The rest of it is the real hard work — raking leaves, pulling overgrown weeds that grow beneath the shadows of our house, cutting down the saplings that crowd near the garden. This is the stuff you don’t see — like contemplating a new scene, reworking a section of dialogue, scrawling inspirations in the middle of the night, jotting down notes in the early morning. It’s the dirty work that makes me feel I’ve accomplished something, even if it goes unnoticed in the end.

But, it’s never really done. There are still parts to finish and sections left to do. Just when I take a day off or two, it seems the weeds start sprouting up anew. It’s time to go back to the areas already cared for and do it all over again. That’s the hardest part of yardwork and the most important part of writing — going back to make it better. It’s cutting words that don’t work, pulling out sentences I don’t like, transplanting scenes that don’t fit anymore, pruning text that is too full. And that can be the most overwhelming part. But it’s worth it. In the end, there’s something even more beautiful to show for it.

When a new blossom appears (which I usually forget I planted in the first place), it makes my day. When I reread something I’ve written, I’m often suprised that I produced something beautiful. It makes me proud to know that I planted it there, I made it grow, and it’s a reflection of my efforts.

I certainly don’t have a “green thumb,” which is why I stick to perennials. It’s easy to pretend I know what I’m doing. I’m faking it. It’s the same with writing — I’m making it up as I go along, but that’s how it’s supposed to be. And that’s the beauty of it!