Imperfect Gardener

by Adina Sara

Quiet Time in the Garden

Fall is my favorite time of year. Something about the sharp colors in the late afternoon that cast a glow on whatever's left of the tomatoes, the dahlias, the ever-blooming tibouchina. The weather is warm and cold at the same time, and since we were lucky enough to get a hint of rain, even the rocks and fallen leaves shine.

I write this column on Yom Kippur—the holiest of days in my religion, though I am not a religious person and feel more connected to spirituality in the sanctity of nature than inside a building. Walking through my garden, I decide against picking up the trowel and loppers—a small concession to honoring the rules of my faith on this day.'

I notice a few small tomatoes on the ground, barely attached to a wilted stem. This particular tomato plant landed on its own accord in a large pot where the lime tree lives. As soon as the tomato volunteer sprang up, I knew it was the wrong place for it and doubted I'd ever see a tomato on it. I was busy tending tomatoes in the real tomato bed across the way and never gave this volunteer much attention. So here it is. The end of the season and three lovely bright red prizes, almost missed, but captured just in time.

The rose geranium bed is gnarly and will require more than my fingers to reshape and clean. I will save that task for another day.'

Around the corner, I see that the climbing rose needs pruning. It has reached the top of the roof, where one cluster of red and white flowers waves like a flag on a tentative stem. I'm not quite sure how to prune this beautiful monster and know only that it will not be today.

' I notice the plants that thrived: the dahlia that keeps on blooming and the one white hollyhock, still waving its flowers, when all the others have already turned their backs on last year. I notice things I can't explain: how the heuchera that grows out of reach of the watering system is doing just as well as the ones being watered; how the winter squash produced beautifully in the summer but we didn't get a single zucchini.'

It is hard not to pick up the trowel—it takes discipline to walk around a garden with the intention of doing nothing. I listen (the jays are holding a convention in the bamboo). I smell the mint, lavender, even the compost, which has a bit too much of something in it, but I'm not sure what. I touch the dry leaves of the apple tree and appreciate how this has been one of its greatest years. I gave away buckets and buckets (too bad I don't bake) and still there were more. More than enough for the birds and the worms as well.

No matter what form of prayer one chooses, the growing and tending of a garden is a sure way to remind us that we are a small part of something much greater.'