Failure, Forgiveness, and Gardening
Picture it: baby-gardener-Ben, let’s say around ten years old, traipsing outdoors on a gardening mission. It’s only in hindsight that I realize, more often than not especially at that age, I “failed” those missions. I moved plants in the wrong season (Iris while in full bloom? Yeah, I did that.) I pruned trees in my parents’ backyard far too aggressively and at the wrong time of year, invoking their loving indignation. One year I found a bottle of “weed killer” in my grandma’s garage and went to town on the dandelions growing through my carrots because the bottle said it killed weeds. How awesome! It killed or mutated everything it touched, including the carrots. Oops.
I continued to garden as I grew older and have “failed” hundreds of times along the way. When I was ten, I didn’t see these moments as failure. I was fully task oriented and focused. I was on a mission, remember?
“Wouldn’t these Irises look better ten feet to the left? Yeah, definitely. Now where’s my shovel?”
“Those limbs keep smacking me in the face every time I walk by.” (This one prompted a hunt through my dad’s tool stash) “Oh, this looks like it would cut things. Let’s do this!” (thereby taking a pruning saw to any limb under five feet)
“Gosh darn it, those dandelions had the nerve to come up through my carrots? I’ll show them…”
You get the idea. Also, a glimpse into what I sound like inside my own head. I’m sorry…
Despite not approaching these moments intending to learn something, it didn’t mean learning wasn’t happening. When I was surprised something didn’t go as planned, my brain made notes and asked questions. “Now isn’t that strange: I wonder why my carrots are curling up like that?” No matter what happened I never wanted to give up. I never felt like a failure.
I think of a garden as an utterly forgiving place. It forgives without judging and without reservation. It forgives entirely and completely. It has no agenda, no vested interest and no opinion. The sun will come up tomorrow and plants will keep growing, no matter what. Our actions are blips — momentary aberrations that fade into equilibrium over time, like ripples on a pond. No matter how large the waves, calm always returns. There is a tomorrow, there is a next year, there is a future.
On that note, I wonder… what if we tried to have more in common with our gardens? Think about it: to be utterly forgiving means we’d never hold a grudge or seek revenge. We could put the past behind us, acknowledge truthfully whatever happened, and wake up the next day ready to do whatever it is we’re doing together in trusting partnership. No baggage, no secrets, no regret, no anxiety, no stress. Sounds blissful, right?
We’re living in a turbulent moment and that bliss can seem like an impossible point on the horizon. It’s difficult right now to balance our emotions and feelings with the decisions we make, how we behave, what we say, and what we believe. My husband is a social worker who helps people with anxiety and depression. In my own anxious moments, he often reminds me, “We are not our feelings. Our feelings don’t define our identity. You can feel anxiety without being an anxious person.”
I can feel outrage. I can feel disappointment. I can feel fear and anger. As we’re seeing in the news and on social media, it can be extremely difficult to break away from negative feelings. (I can’t help but think of Star Wars here. Nerd alert.)
Gardens have superpowers. They can help us break cycles of negativity and put some healthy distance between our identity and our feelings. When we practice accepting the forgiveness our garden offers, we’re blessed with “happy accidents.” When the Geranium seeded within bronze fennel and it was the best thing ever; when we didn’t dig our garlic and had a quintuple crop the next spring; when we realized bronze fennel reseeds prolifically… true stories, by the way.
This is why I care so passionately that we nurture and support every new gardener however we can. I hope we think and speak honestly about why we garden and share our “why” generously with friends, neighbors, and family.
Gardens ground us in chaotic moments. They can be an indispensable partner for the work that lies ahead of us. It doesn’t matter if your cause is climate change, racial justice, political engagement, community building or something else — a garden can be your partner. Gardens can remind you of the power of love and forgiveness.
We’re resilient when we garden. We’re kinder, braver, and more present when we garden.
Our world needs more gardeners.
