GARDEN THERAPY

 

Blue Hydrangeas

Isolated in a country parsonage, after our second child was born I had the post-partum blues. Since one child took all my time anyway, we had decided, why not another?  After all, they're so much fun.  It was a good move; two fragrant babies are better than one.  Doubles the love. But winter in a bungalow without insulation and one icy bathroom, made caring for two in diapers harder than I expected. Sleeping was more like waking.  Plus I hadn't yet made a friend. 

As soon as the ground thawed a neighbor plowed a garden for me. Any 50° day we spent outdoors.  Not having any idea that planting was the easy part, I put in more seeds than I could possibly care for.  Mounds of zucchini, all kinds of vegetable and greens, trailing cucumbers, tomatoes that would have lost any competition had I entered them . . . .  I couldn't have had better therapy.  Same for the children.  They rolled around bundled in parkas until the temperatures rose.  

Hoeing and digging might seem mindless but it is also mindful, a word I didn't use then.  It takes you out of yourself.  The children felt it too.  Outside they didn't fuss.  Toys were shared.  The baby babbled, the first-born answered him. The cat chased a snake or two out of the strawberry patch. 

In the next house in a different part of the country I planted flowers and bushes instead of vegetables. But the therapy was the same.  Hours planning beds, adding, subtracting, pruning and, always, raking and burning leaves; you could do that then.  Mindful repetitive actions that caused stress to dissolve; it evaporated like water.  While I raked the kids swung back and forth, pumping up and down in graceful rhythmic motion.  It was one of the best times of life. 

Gardening is still therapy.  If you garden I bet you agree.  Chronic illness, pain, anxiety--whether physical or emotional--even heartsickness is healed in the garden. Not quickly, but steadily.  Where but outdoors do our senses lie so open to the quivering universe?  

There are times that I've teetered on the edge of despair when what I should have done is go outside:  pull weeds, sweep the paths, hose the deck, dead-head the plants.  Not to over-sell, because our healing kit holds many tools.  But placing our feet on solid ground, our hands in the loam, our ears and breath straining with the wind in the trees . . . that is where perspective settles fears.

Most recently gardening has been an escape from all we are facing.  There is no news out where I gather brush.  No intrusive thoughts.  Chronic sorrows diminish.  All that I love and appreciate seems to move forward in my heart. I come indoors at dusk contented. I would like to build a willow fence from all the brush I gather.  I may need help. 

When our children were small and a handful my husband used to say that a night out was cheaper than therapy.  What are the places where you can escape your cares?  I hope we all have many.  

                                                     Nina Naomi