Garlic and Gooseberries: Melancholy

When I came home from the garden the other day and started to make dinner, I found myself overcome with sadness. I stopped washing the zucchini – from Trader Joe’s, not the garden, since only one has been harvested from my enthusiastic plants – and let the melancholy wash over me. Why was I sad? After a week away I had found that much of the squash and pumpkin plants had withered away, taking the promise of a fall harvest with them. One of the green eggplants had turned bright yellow, which I believe means it is over ripe and bitter, only good for seeds now. Not remembering which variety of eggplants I planted, I realize now that those sweet little green orbs are not supposed to get much bigger than they already are, and I should have picked that yellow one long ago.

But really, what were those waves of sadness about? My husband gave me a hug, and I felt a little silly. Was it a sense of failure that I have not turned out to be a very good plant mama after all? Should I have fertilized more, or planted less? Was it the dirt, the sun exposure, the bugs and powdery mildew, or was it, as my daughter said, just the cycle of life?

My husband reminded me that it has never been about the end result, but only about the process. This little garden gave me hope and purpose and a giddy sense of joy when I was shaky in all those areas. I am so grateful. So perhaps those withered squash vines scared me a little with their reminder of the end of the growing season. Yes, the chard is still gorgeous, and the broccoli and turnips are just beginning their moment of glory, but let’s not fool ourselves: the summer is waning. I have always deeply loved the warmth and light of summer, so letting it go is hard. But this summer has had its ups and downs, no question about it. Sitting with my sadness is a good way to recognize that, and then to let it go. Isn’t it better that life does not unfold exactly as planned? If it all went smoothly we would not know what to appreciate, and what to value, how to be flexible or how to seek out answers and get help. We would not know how strong we are or when it is okay to fall apart. Hidden gifts. 

I woke up the next morning forgiving the garden its less than perfect outcomes. I will take my cue from the leeks and turnips that dig down deep as fall comes, gathering strength and substance in the quiet and darkness of the cooler seasons.