I stopped tending to my garden in July.
We’ve kept a 10’x10′ garden plot at our local community garden, since it opened two years ago.
After working with the soil and the plants for a good, 18 months or so, our garden finally experienced its first bloom.
Our artichoke plant, the one we bought as a starter and that initially struggled after its first planting, was moved to the part of our garden box where I had buried a piece of my placenta. It was left over from my son’s labor and delivery, in the fall of 2014.
This past summer it finally blossomed, producing about two dozen artichoke buds.
I even left a few of the stalks to bloom, so that we could have a bouquet of the purple thistle flowers in our backyard at home.
The corn seeds went in late in the season.
It was a sweet, red corn that the ants devoured as soon it began to mature. So, I let it go and left the stalks to wither and dry in the bed. I stopped showing up to our garden after that.
I let it go fallow.
In October, as I was physically struggling through our third pregnancy, my partner was living within an acute state of fear (about money). Garden membership dues were also expected that month, but I feared making the investment (of $120, a whole $10/year!). I actually thought that I could just let our garden plot go.
After months of not visiting, I finally drove by it this past week and acted on my inspiration to return. Channeling all of my fear that I have been experiencing this week – with the return of my Moon cycle, it was my first Moon cycle, post-miscarriage,#2, as well as the ongoing challenge of raising our three year-old, I cleared the plot. In two hours, I churned and tilled all of the soil – my body moving as one with the tools as well as a newfound mastery. I left a singular strawberry plant as I hauled in more bricks, in order to create a central, spiraling design.
However, I also felt bereft – how could I think of giving up on this little piece of my heart & a space where I have been lovingly cultivating life for two years now?
Life is an ongoing dance. It always changes.
Beyond being caught up in the spin-cycles of transformation,
I can harness my energies and apply these in molding the Earth.
Returning to the canvas of my life, I can re-sculpt and redesign it –
at any time.
After drying, withering, dying and even be cast out,
we can grow again.
Sometimes, it is in this liminal, fallow space –
between what which has come before and that which is to come –
when we are the most fertile and rich.