Prayer of a Wannabe Gardener

Creator God, Giver of Life,
I beseech you to help me not to kill all my plants.
Please give me eyes to see them on their dusty windowsills,
And help me to remember to water them regularly and consistently.
When I am rushing past and notice their wilting leaves,
Grant me the wisdom to stop and give a minute to their care.
I confess to you my false belief that they will somehow make it on their own,
And the shameful thought that I can just go and buy another one anyway.
Please renew my mind and, if possible, my hands - I'd like green fingers instead of a black thumb please.
Amen.


(Yes, it's that time of year again, and the same hopes and fear arise that inspired my 'Confessions of a Plantkiller' string of posts last year!)

Our Summer So Far

I have neglected to post on here for a while, partly because I've been squeezing all my creative juices into preparing for a talk I did at our church on Sunday morning (I'll post a link when the podcast is online), and also because summer... happens! So I thought it was about time I posted a few photos of some of the adventures we've been having as a family so far this summer.

First, a couple of photos from the wedding of my relatively new but already very precious friend Ellen to her beloved, Marc. It was a beautiful, relaxed and moving wedding that we loved being part of. Here they are, happily and very newly married!


And here's Jeremy and me, also happy to be there!


Next up in our adventures was a short trip up to Skiff Lake, near Woodstock, one of our favourite lakes in the area, not least because when we're up there we get to spend time with our dear friends Mary-Ann and Bob. We went up for two nights this time and had a wonderful time, with good conversation, lovely food and drink, lots of sitting in the sun and swimming and boating... and lots of fishing for Jeremy and Bob.

Here they are heading off for an evening fishing trip.

And here are the Winslows and Amelie in the cottage they were renting...

...a view of the cottage and deck from the water...

..and Amelie peeping into the little guest cottage next door that we stayed in - just a baby barn turned into a room with a half bathroom.

This little place made us think we might like to put one of these at the bottom of our garden one day as a summer guest retreat, just like we saw on the Swedish islands of Donso and Styso, painted the same colour as the house whose garden they sat in, with little gingham curtains in the windows. Now wouldn't that be fun?!

Next up, our friend Gary's 50th birthday bash out at their cottage on the St Croix river. It was a very relaxed time, with BBQ and potluck feast, followed by some jamming (pictured below: Jeremy on his mandolin, with Amelie and her friend Ali playing along too), and then a bonfire overlooking the water.


And last but not least, Amelie and I took a trip out to visit our friend Karen's farm - Robb Hill, just outside Calais over the border in Maine - for the first time last week. It was quite the adventure, as the farm is in the middle of the woods, a mile down a rough track full of puddles as big as small ponds, and Karen had to come and pick us up from the end of her track in her truck, which Amelie and I had fun riding in the back of. It is SUCH a beautiful place and her market garden is so wonderfully burgeoning.

Here are some snapshots from our time there, including Amelie picking peas, and then showing off all the produce Karen so generously let us choose: courgettes, rainbow Swiss chard, peas, carrots, a green pepper, and also a huge bag of different lettuces. It's been wonderful cooking with it all this week.





And that, folks, is a little taste of just some of the highlights of summer 2010 for us so far, and why we love this season in this new home of ours. If you live far away, come and visit! :-)

Confessions of a Plant-killer: Part Three (Getting Personal)

If I assert that I am born neither with green fingers nor a black thumb, why might it be that I have chosen to be someone who does not keep plants alive? This is indeed a very troubling question, as I truly don’t wish to be a killer of anything or anyone, and have in fact made many an effort not to be one! I don’t pretend to have the definitive answer to this question – just ponderings that make some sense to me – but I notice something as I rinse the broccoli sprouts morning and evening, and ‘harvest’ some of them to the fridge today; as I take the time every rainless evening, whatever my other pressing plans and commitments, to water the tomato plants thanks to two extra lengths of hose that I finally got around to purchasing last week; and as I keep an eye on the sourdough starter, choosing when to feed it and when to bake with it. What I cannot help but notice is that these actions, which I have found so difficult to maintain in the past, are incredibly small, simple gestures. They take hardly any time, are remarkably uninvolved, and require no labour-intensive procedures. But, for all their simplicity, they demand to be done regularly and with straightforward precision. Perhaps, then, to tend living things, and keep them alive, is to choose a discipline of love supported by routines of care.

This week I came across an interesting discussion of the traditional ‘Seven Deadly Sins’ and the way in which Jesus’ ‘Beatitudes’ confront each of these (it seems that this discussion originally appeared in Back to Virtue by Peter Kreeft). The idea that caught my eye was that Sloth (which I have known since working with the Enneagram to be my habitual trap or ‘sin of choice’!) can be defined as a ‘refusal to exert the will towards the good’. Ouch! That’s me in more area than one! For so many years I have excused my serial plant-killing with the avowal that “I didn’t mean to!”, and it’s true that I didn’t try to murder the poor things! But I think I am finally ready to see that my choice not to water or feed or tend still reflects some level of refusal to exert my will towards good and towards life. In other words, it’s not just what I do that matters and that defines me, it is also what I don’t do. Or, expressed in the positive, the little things I do really are significant – for my plants, but also for my relationships and for myself. It is not enough to ‘not kill’ (…or abandon or disparage) these things and these people; love demands that I cast off my tendency towards ease and consequent neglect, and instead exert my will towards the good, by intentionally choosing habitual actions that nurture and bring life.

As I write this, I have one more new thought. This past year I have been coming to know and experience that the Great Love that fuels the universe is not passively benevolent but rather actively loving. There is no sloth in God. Perhaps, then, as I am changed by this Great Love, I will more closely resemble it myself. And hopefully that will mean, among other things, no more dead plants…

Confessions of a Plant-killer: Part Two

When I think back over the more than fifteen years of trying to learn the skill of plant-tending, I must admit with shame that it has been rare for me to keep a plant alive. And last summer’s first attempt at vegetable growing was far from successful; my protégés did not receive enough water, weeding or de-slugging to thrive, and many produced nothing at all. So I’m ‘down-sizing’ this summer and hopeful that I can learn to be ‘faithful with little’, but just last week I killed a peppermint plant that was waiting (and waiting and waiting…) to be re-potted and given a little loving kindness. I was so sad and disappointed with myself. And it’s not because I loved the mint with all my heart (I didn’t). I think it’s mostly because I have such aspirations of being green-fingered and living ‘close to the earth’, and every time I kill a plant it also feels like another death blow to this treasured image of myself and my future.

Why oh why does this not come naturally to me?! I grew up in Southern England’s ‘New Forest’ region, always surrounded by the whispering of silver birches and the unfurling of tender bracken, by fruit and vegetables picked fresh from the garden and eaten outside as often as possible in the summer months. My Dad grew up on a South African farm and my Mum lived ‘the simple life’ in a cabin in the Rockies of Colorado for ten years, both of them now being enthusiastic and successful gardeners, so it sure seems as if the life I dream of should be in my genes! But almost two decades have definitely taught me one thing: whatever other factors come into play, the life I lead is by and large of my own choosing. This can be a very depressing thought. But not as depressing as the idea that I was born either with green fingers or a black thumb (Urban Dictionary definition: “A wannabe gardener who kills plants.”) and can do nothing about it. I entirely reject this kind of determinism, and so I am left face to face with the stark truth that, somehow and for some reason, I have chosen to be someone who does not keep plants alive. Why?

The next installment of ‘Confessions of a plant-killer’ will get a little more personal, as I reflect on this troubling question.

It takes a village to grow a tomato

I am not, on the whole, a self-starter... but maybe that's not all bad. They say it takes a village to raise a child - agreed. In my case, it also takes a village to plant a garden or start making sourdough bread! Let me tell you how...

Garden: 5 tomato plants given by Helen, 2 by Mat, leftover seeds by Thiessens, beds initially weeded and dug this spring by father-in-law Ian, rotavated by Jeremy with Thiessens' machine fetched with Mat's help, sides redug by me (yay!) and plants finally planted last night after a phone call with Helen gave me the final motivation I needed, supported by tomato cages from Lowers. Woohoo!

Sourdough: examples and samples provided by Grace and Leslie over weeks and months, first recipe and flour provided by Leslie, 'Nourishing Traditions' book for Christmas from Joanna to inform me of the health-giving properties of fermented foods, starter as a gift on Leslie's departure for the summer, and now here I am on my 3rd attempt, this time part rye flour.
Go me... go village!!!