Get your hands dirty

I complain about being busy as much as the next person.

It seems like we all do, like having too much to do is a badge of honor. Like not getting enough rest somehow makes us better people, instead of making us cranky, more susceptible to illness and resistant to learning new things.

I know this, in my heart of hearts and my soul of souls. I read the summer Gospel passages, the ones that come in ordinary time, where Jesus goes off on his own to rest, and I’m reminded that even in the first-century Roman Empire, needing downtime was a thing.

Despite that, I’ve added a new item to my morning to-do list: Check the plants. And, most days, water the plants. Maybe pull a weed or six.

I hesitate to call my vegetable plants, all in containers on my porch and patio, a garden. A few herbs, a couple of grape tomato plants, a box bed with green beans just sprouted, lettuce and — soon — the transplanted bell pepper seedlings that I started in my dining room.

They’re nothing like the plot my Iowa-born, farm-raised grandfather planted in the backyard of my childhood home. That was a garden, planned down to the inch, with several areas used for different crops as the season moved from spring to summer to fall. There were beans and tomatoes and peppers — several species of each — and lettuce and peas, squash and zucchini, onions and potatoes, sweet corn that would be served fresh and hot, on the cob, about 10 minutes after it was picked.

My grandfather took some produce for himself and my grandmother, gave plenty to my aunts and their families, and we still had so much that we begged the neighbors to take some, and then take some more.

While I’ve already used some of the herbs, my plants are not enough to feed us all summer like that. That’s fine; I didn’t plant them to save on groceries.

I planted them because even though it is one more chore to do, caring for my plants gives me 10 minutes or so a day when I am outside, caring for a little piece of the earth, watching the miracle of life as seeds that I got on sale at Menard’s turn into something green and growing, from pale, tiny sprouts, curled over as they pierce the top of the soil, to solid stalks holding bright, lush leaves.

Planting a seed is an act of faith; it’s been said so often it’s become a cliché. My faith is far from perfect. More than once, when my seeds failed to germinate in their expected time frame, I’ve replanted. Maybe it was too cold, or the soil too wet or too dry, or the birds go them, or something — and a day or so later, the original seeds I planted sprout.

Seeing those little green sprouts unfurl brings me joy and wonder and, yes, an unwarranted sense of accomplishment, because all I did was put the seeds where they could grow. And watered them.