Thanks Giving

The last month or so, I came to realize that I have needed a change. When I go out to plant or work in the fields, I constantly ask, “What am I doing here?” I am filled with hatred: for not knowing the right answer, for all the failures of the last three and a half years.

I take those failures and grimly think, “I’m still here. I endure.”

But it was the fragile endurance of a brittle bone, always ready to snap.

Last Saturday, I headed out to prepare beds to plant garlic. Phil, recovering still from his illness, came out and asked what I was doing. "Nothing. Fighting despair."

What was I doing? Finding dozens of roots in a few square feet of soil. Debating whether my time would best be spent earning money, reading to the boys, preparing beds for garlic. And then I would think about how important right intentions are, and I would think, "No plant is going to grow well in soil that I am actively hating."

I quit then.

What makes me angry? I came to this place, expecting the earth to accept me, to nourish and sustain me. I was excited to be with the earth, to live with my family in a productive natural environment. I expected to have to build soil, to plant and tend.

But it has felt at times like a malevolence pursues me here, turning my attempts to ashes; transforming my hope to despair. Why would we lose so many lambs? Why would only perhaps a tenth of the peppers sprout? Why would my first ever swarm have the queen die, so that I had no perspective? It's like all the mistakes possible happened to us at the first, and so, because we had no perspective on proper lambing, or swarming, or planting, we had no way to realize that what we were attempting wasn't working.

I hated it. It is all failure; everywhere I look at our efforts, I see the ugliness of man. Plastic. Wire. Debris. Nature itself remains beautiful and fascinating; it's just what I touch here that is not.

Last Sunday, I picked up a book I've had for several years, The Lost Language of Plants. The premise of the book is that people throughout time have known that plants have wisdom to impart, but that our modern culture not only doesn't believe, but thinks those who hear from plants are crazy.

(Whatever you think of the premise, and there are certainly things in the book I don't agree with, I'm not willing to discount this immediately. The Bible speaks of the trees of the field clapping their hands, and Jesus says that if the people did not glorify him, the stones would cry out. That's clearly not a declaration that stones think, but I think it leaves the possibility open.)

Reading somewhat at random, I came across an exercise in which you imagine yourself as a child, and have a little imaginary conversation and give your younger self a hug. I longed to do that, and so I did. I sat out under the trees, in the dark (with the hungry-for-attention dogs nudging me every few seconds). And as soon as I imagined little blonde, curly-haired Amy, I was overwhelmed with compassion, as little Amy was so sad. “Nothing I do is ever good enough.”

I sat and cried. Is that not still the way I feel at least weekly?

And yet, as a mom, I can see that Jadon, my mini-me, feels that way about himself sometimes. But what an amazing child he is. I have so much compassion for him: his failures are so tiny compared with his triumphs and abilities. Why can I not have compassion for myself?

In my imagination, as I hugged little Amy, I said, “Let’s be kinder to ourselves.”

I have heard that same comment repeatedly from friends over the years. I've written about it here. But I couldn't really grasp it until I could see it as both a parent and a child. What a load lifted.

That night, I went to bed and prayed for sweet dreams.

Within two minutes, I was plunged into my worst recurring nightmare, in which I am on a boat with my children and one falls off and drowns. It's a horrible dream, and I always wake, heart-pounding, horrified and sick.

But because I had just had that little interaction with my young self, I could suddenly see where that dream was coming from. The worst possible accident from parental oversight. Nothing I do is ever good enough, and maybe it will result in the death of my child.

I said, "God, I don't know how to deal with this! It's too heavy a load! Be with me in my fear!"

My heart rate immediately calmed, and I slept with sweet dreams, and woke cheerful in the new day.

I went and planted garlic that next day. Maybe only about 300 more cloves. But you know, each of those might be a gift someday. Maybe not. Maybe they will be shrunken and disappointing next May or June. But maybe not.

How wonderful to have no more hatred. To just be with the plants. With my family. To be present in this place. To worship God with a full heart. To ask for guidance. To expect wisdom.

To be thankful.