I Ghosted My Garden

I have a gardening rhythm I'm trying to break.

I get inspired, buy the plants, hold onto enough inspiration to actually get them into the ground, tend to them for a few weeks, then neglect sets in.

I watch them from my kitchen window, arms crossed, desperately wanting to go down to the garden, but convinced that if I can't give it three hours, I can't give it anything at all. Does that sound familiar? 

This past fall, I was so excited to plant collards again. I love fall gardening more than any other season in Nashville. I planted enough to have bunches for myself and to share with the neighbors. I fought the pests for weeks and won most of the battles. And then the neglect set in.

I ghosted my collards. All winter, I watched them from my kitchen window. I stopped by on the way to the shed and told myself they looked fine. But "fine" is what we say when we've already let something go and aren't ready to admit it yet. Every once in a while, my husband, Chris, would casually mention, "Those collards are boomin’!" and my stomach would sink. I'd feel that pull to go spend an afternoon with them. Checking leaves. Pruning. Just thinking. But if I couldn't give them everything, how could I give them anything?

The truth is, the garden wasn't the only thing I was neglecting. Life had gotten heavy in ways I wasn't ready to talk about, and somewhere along the way I made an unconscious rule: if I couldn't show up completely, I shouldn't show up at all. It felt like a standard. It was actually a hiding place. When everything feels like too much, perfection becomes the excuse that lets you opt out of everything.

Here's where I am now: my fall collards were never harvested. The flowers are taller than me, and I'm tall as hell. They bolted. They did what neglected collards do when the season keeps moving without you. And for a while, I looked at them and felt the way I feel about a lot of things I've let go. Guilty, a little embarrassed, and convinced that the moment had passed.

But here's what I'm learning, slowly, through the garden and through life: nature's not judging you.

Those flowers I was avoiding? They're full of seeds that I can dry and save. I'll plant them again next season, this time grown from my own garden, carrying their own little history of neglect and survival. I've already told my neighbors and a few friends to expect their bunches in late fall. Funny enough, a little self-imposed guilt and a looming promise turns out to be a solid motivator. I'm working on healthier forms of motivation in therapy, but for now this gets me going. - Susanna