Last evening in the garden, I scraped back the straw and found the first stirrings of the lettuce seeds I planted 10 days ago.
I felt an immediate and oh so primal rush of emotion.Two emotions, actually. And today, because I am nothing if not emotional overkill,I am thinking about how bizarre these feelings are.
First, I felt excitement.YES, YES there WILL be wonderful salad this spring... romaine and mesclun and some weirdlings called "tennis ball lettuce" that came from a visit to Thomas Jefferson's Monticello a few years back.
That was ridiculous enough because this is 2013 in metropolitan Philadelphia.So it is not as if there will be No Salad on the Homestead This Spring if the seeds stayed below ground. Or, for that matter, if they stayed in the package or even back at Monticello.
My second feeling was pride.Yep, pride.I beamed down on their little green heads like they had just gotten the lead in the 5th grade play. But I had not taught these little seedlings to read, I had not nursed them through stomach viruses and head lice, I had not given them years of Unconditional Love. I ripped open a package, hurled them onto the soil, covered them with 1/4 inch of dirt/rock and then buried them beneath straw so disgusting that the farmer wondered why I would even give her money for it.
Oh, and I forgot to water them.
Yet, somehow, I felt proud of their existence. Of their conception. Now, conception has been sort of a sore subject for me since my so-called "childbearing years" were anything but that. I've chronicled my descent into infertility elsewhere. Even though adoption brought me into double-barrelled motherhood (see vomiting and head lice, above) I have always kept my sorrow at missing out on experiencing pregnancy, delivery, nursing buried beneath a, well, a layer of moldy straw. Last evening, in the pink of the first warm sunset in months, I pulled that straw back, too.
And you know what? There was nothing there. I couldn't find an ache. I couldn't evoke a tear. Wow. It only took 30 years, but there was not even the slightest trace of a scar. Or perhaps the other scars --you know, the ones you get from that tiny part of parenting that starts AFTER birth, from failing eyesight and creaky knees, from just Living in This World--those scars have left bigger marks.
Who knows. It doesn't matter. So much of what I let define me for decades...just doesn't matter anymore. Which leaves me free to feel magic where there once was straw. I wish I could jump up and down and tell all the 20 somethings in my life to exhale, to assure them that it will all be all right in whatever form it takes. But if they were truly able to hear that, why, they wouldn't be 20 something, would they?
I'm going back to the garden, where I can just be amazed. And excited. And proud. Because gardening is just this thing that evokes those kind of emotions, especially in an era and a place on the planet where the successes and failures are not life-threatening. Perhaps because it offers connection with forces much bigger than our own lives and the sight of a seedling is proof of connection made?
I'll keep you posted about my little darlings.