Gleanings from the Editor

        Two hundred years ago, people came to Texas seeking adventure, refuge and new hope.  Today we can still find all of those things out in the garden.  The weather alone offers enough challenge and variety for the most adventurous. On the day in March I was building raised beds and sweating in the sunshine, my sister in Sherman and Paul in Wichita Falls both called to report snow.  Two days later, a friend who suffers severely from the cold and damp in Belgium emailed to say it was warmer and drier there than it was here.

        After seven years of skin-flaking drought, we’re beginning to grow gills. It is impossible to guess what turns the weather will take next. We watch the weather forecast on TV for entertainment, not information. So it takes a certain amount of  courage to grow a garden — a sense of daring and boldness.

        On the other hand, I cannot imagine not having a garden, not knowing that place of refuge and connection with both the immediate and the eternal. Without that basic contact with the soil, the understanding that comes from watching things grow, die and grow again, how can a woman feel herself a part of the whole of life?  How can a man recognize his place in the scheme of things?

        I hear stories of city kids who don’t know that milk comes from cows. That alarms a lot of people. But there are millions of adults who feel no connection to the earth at all — no feeling for the food they eat, the grass beneath their feet, the trees overhead.  The first problem is one of information. Kids can be taught about cows. The second seems much more serious. When we lose the sense of ourselves as creatures of nature, dependent on and stewards of the earth, we become rowdies who feel free to wreck the car because “it’s only a rental.”

        For me the garden is a refuge and a reminder that I am part of a bigger picture, a grander scheme. I am not something completely different from the lavender and roses and earthworms. I work on them; they work on me; we combine to create something lovely, calming and hopeful.  It is not always neat or orderly, and it is never finished, but it is always alive with possibility.

        Despite the late cold and wet, this has been a terrific spring. The roses are loaded with flowers; lettuce was sweet and crisp; flowers quiver on the brink of gaudiness. And yet, life is never perfect, and the garden reminds me of that too. I’ve never seen so many snails in my life. The cabbage looked like lace when I pulled up the last few heads and the iris leaves are filigreed.

       Two hundred years ago people came to Texas and remarked on the fragrant native mimosas, searched for a spot to plant food and raise a family, exclaimed over the hardships and the bounty.  In different ways, we are doing the same. The adventure continues, the rewards are there, as long as we stay connected and keep our feet in the dirt.