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!)

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.

Confessions of a Plant-killer: Part One

I have been realising that what most inspires me about some of my recent ventures is that I am growing and making things that are actually alive: tomato plants, herbs and flowers that need regular watering; broccoli sprouts that must be rinsed twice a day and eaten within a few days of sprouting; sourdough bread made with a fermented starter that needs to be fed with flour and water to keep it alive. When I tend these living things, and when we eat them as a family, I somehow feel more alive myself, and very happy to be providing life and nourishment to our bodies. But their aliveness is exactly what scares me about these things, too, and what has kept me from them over the years despite numerous urges to grow-my-own, sprout-my-own and bake-my-own. The awful truth about living things is that you can easily kill them, and I say this from bitter experience.

Yes, I admit that my track record with living things over the years has not been strong. When I first left home to go to university – in a flurry of 18-year-old excitement about new independence and having a room that was ‘my own space’ – my mother’s love and hopes went with me in the form of kettle and mugs, and my father’s in houseplants. He would tenderly ask after them all whenever we talked on the phone, and I would rather dutifully report the surprise emergence of new flowers or leaves, while always taking their living presence very much for granted. Little did he know (and even I was too unaware to realise) that they only survived because of the motherly, Devonshire cleaning lady who came in every morning to bustle around my slumbering body, emptying my bin and, yes, watering my plants. A year later, sharing a house with friends and no cleaner, I discovered that plants die if you don’t look after them! As I was only just learning how to feed and water myself, I guess the stretch to plants proved to be just too much.

But over fifteen years have passed since then. Surely, I must have learned this lesson by now? The confessions of a serial plant-killer continue tomorrow...