“This is really why I made my daughters learn to garden – so they would always have a mother to love them, long after I am gone.” — Robin Wall Kimmerer
“Mothering” is a word with boundless connotations. It’s most primal definition only scratches the surface of its variant uses and meanings. “Mothering” is synonymous with “teaching” and can be done by more than biological mothers. It can be a solo or group endeavor. Whatever amalgamation of actions, sentiments, endeavors, and hopes comprise “mothering”, the world needs more of it. Some of us came into this life with mothers who were able to be what we needed in many ways. Others have not been so fortunate. In my life there have been many mothers, and mothering has come in countless forms and from handfuls of people and life experiences.
One of my core memories of someone who has mothered me is via my horticulture boss/mentor turned dear friend. While planting out thousands of seedlings on a chilly, late March day for the May plant sale at Plimoth Patuxet Museums, she noticed I was unusually quiet. When she asked what was wrong, I confided in her concerning a serious trial I was going through which was largely being endured in silence and isolation.
She didn’t say much, but she immediately went to the calendar on the wall and scheduled me to come in every day that week at dawn to open and work the greenhouse alone for a few hours until she arrived. I had previously only been scheduled for two other days. I asked her why the sudden schedule change. She replied, “It is impossible to be alone when you are working with plants. You can’t engage in the act without seeing how you are a part of things -not separate from them. Basically, you need the company.” She was right.
In my twenty plus years of gardening, I have many-a-time been a child kneeling at the feet of the mother -taking in all the stories, lessons, and inspiration the natural world has graciously offered me. I have seen others mothered, as I have been, by the earth and the act of becoming a partner with her through gardening to create, sustain, and flourish. This symbiotic relationship is not only natural, it is our birthright as human beings -to engage respectfully and sustainably with the planet and environment we are a biologically a part of. Our ancestors understood this connection in ways we are becoming unfamiliar with in modern times.
Linda Hogan wrote in her poem, Old Ways:
“Walking. I am listening to a deeper way. Suddenly all my ancestors are behind me. Be still, they say. Watch and listen. You are the result of the love of thousands.”
The love of thousands -the mothering energy of centuries, resulted in us, here and now, in this moment. When we connect with the old ways and let them “mother” us, when we honor and learn for ourselves the passed-down truths, wisdoms, lessons, remedies, hopes, and methods that spanned generations of tongues and minds to end up on our mental doorsteps, it is impossible not to feel cared for -bolstered, brave.
The miracle of mothering is that the recipe for doing it successfully, by any means or person, has not really changed across the ages. The mothering I have received from the garden has taught/is teaching me a few life lessons that I might not have learned as blatantly had I not been involved with the earth. Mothering, bestowed by the garden, has shown me that experiences gained by living life connected to the cycles of the earth prove the tried-and-true knowledge that every “take” requires a “give” in an existence of interdependence, that life is entirely seasonal and our peace is dependent upon us relenting to that, and that control is an illusion where nature is concerned, but hope is a compost and is as enriching and mandatory to us now as it was long ago. More so, in fact.
Mothering from the garden has shown me that existence requires interdependence. No one thing or person is so sufficient, flawless, or rational that it/they can find peace and fulfilment or function at full capacity in isolation. I encountered this lesson when learning about companion planting. This is a garden practice where you place two plants that have a symbiotic relationship next to each other and each of them benefits in ways that surpass their potential being planted on their own. In my gardens, I learned to interplant my beloved English rose collection with nepeta (catmint).
Nepeta benefits the roses by providing volatile masking. This is when aromatic plants emit compounds that physically interfere with pests such as aphids’ host-location ability. Aphids identify target plants via chemical signals; companion volatiles mask those signals. Nepeta also provides neighboring flowers to supply pollen and nectar that sustain populations of hoverflies, parasitic wasps, and ladybugs. This means the nepeta calls in a sustained presence of protective predators for the rose’s enemy pest populations. In turn, a more prolific rose bush enhances scent trails that lead pollinators to the nepeta and the rose roots leach nutrients into the soil that feed the nepeta.
As far as humans are concerned, we can easily see this relating to our communal nature and the way our societies were built over time. Each with our varying talents, interests, abilities, and insights offers a unique blueprint of life for others to observe and learn from -be it as inspiration or warning. Our interdependence filters from our personal lives into our communities and even nations. Resources, geographic locations, crops, and technologies from one nation are not found in the other and vice versa and trade is established. In our local governments, voters are needed to choose representation who, in turn, advocate for their bolstering voters for funds and resources. In our relationships, we find the most fulfillment when we are in a pattern of fellowship with each other -where we take turns saving one another through our energy and abilities when another person is in need of sustenance or support. There is no independence in nature -there is interdependence that is founded upon the collection of each participants’ unique abilities combining into a kaleidoscope of harmonious purpose.
When lost in gardening tasks, such as seed starting, composting, weeding, harvesting, and planting, you subconsciously become an active participant in the rhythm of the earth -in its seasons. Rachel Carlson said, “There is something infinitely healing in the repeated refrains of nature -the assurance that dawn comes after night, and spring after winter.” In my own personal chaos, I find the mandatory and reliable demands nature places upon anyone who wishes to interact with it, in a meaningful and prolific manner, a great constant and comfort. No matter the complexities of my day-to-day existence, the peony buds still form in late April and the garlic still needs to be planted in the fall under mulch to grow the winter long.
Living on a flower farm in the forest, I am at the mercy of the earth and her seasons. In the spring, the needed clean-up pulls me from my indoor focus to bask in the vitamin D and birdsong -a counter symphony to any remaining winter seasonal blues. The sound of the first peepers is as important an announcement from my youngest as his latest video game high score, and the started seedlings are fussed over like extra, temperature-sensitive, sun-hungry children.
Summer brings the dance of flood and drought, of paced exertion and perseverance in the wet New England heat. The respite of enjoying a chilled drink around the firepit at the end of a day of summer intensity, while surrounded by little galaxies of fireflies and a symphony of crickets, makes any strains of the day obsolete. In the fall, it is hard to focus on any tasks because just looking upward at the jeweled canopies is the finest distraction of the year. Still, harvest time requires anything but rest. There is an underlying panic -primeval in force, that urges us to hurry, preserve, save, and savor. When winter casts its first blankets upon us, we learn to slow down, listen to the paused frenzy of the year, and hibernate.
Our lives have seasons far more complex and unpredictable. Some have many harvests, others few. Some have a lifetime of dependable rain, others relentless drought. Some have stretches where the dark winter in their soul carries on for years, while others glow in long stretches of sunny days. Many have an equilibrium of seasons of ease and strife. While nobly striving to make the best of the season we are in, and making our own sunshine when there is none, the most detrimental thing we can do is fight against the seasons that are naturally occurring. Seasons of growth can be terrifying and taxing, but stunting ourselves in the comfort of unwavering consistency is like keeping a vibrant plant in a tiny pot to become root-bound. Equally, constantly focusing on “bigger, better, more” comes at a cost of draining our souls of contentment and the ability to see the harvests we do have in our lives -in a world where the very definition of “bounty” is at odds with the earth and inner peace.
In the midst of learning how to give and take respectfully, and how to ebb and flow with life’s seasons, the garden has shown me the one thing that matters more than anything and that I am still striving to learn: To hope. Audrey Hepburn famously said, “To plant a garden is to believe in tomorrow.” There is another adage that sits in my mind: “Plant pears for your heirs” referring to the slow nature of a pear tree maturing to produce an abundant harvest. Gardening is, in itself, a game of chance. You can’t tell a seed’s germination rate by looking at it. You can’t predict the weather that will hinder or help its growth. You can’t foresee most pests or diseases once its grown, or stop every animal that nibbles, or storm wind that bends.
Each seed or plant put into the earth is placed there with the hope that it will become what we need and want it to be -but with no guarantees. Certainly, particular patterns and practices increase your odds every time, but even the most seasoned of gardeners will lose an “invincible” zucchini plant sometimes. Regardless of the outcome, the intent is always hoping for the best. The most prolific gardens are the ones in January, when the snow is still on the ground because they are the gardens in your mind -the ones cultivated entirely from imagination and hope and they are just as important as their physical manifestations in the growing season because there is nothing more tantalizing than potential.
Hope is the food that also feeds the human spirit. We sing about it, write about it, preach and speak about it, and make art about it. We live and die by it. Hope is the one thing that can be so fragile, but also impossible to kill. If we have it, no matter how many seasons or experiences in our lives prove it to be futile, we are kept in motion. We keep trying. We keep dreaming and adjusting and trialing and, eventually once in a while, triumphing. Hope is the compost of our souls -made up of life’s micro and macro observations and experiences. Ironically, unlike gardening, the best way to add to your hope is to give it to others.
Perhaps this article has been a rambling, over-the-top sentiment and full of sop. Perhaps I am presumptuous in assuming the things I am learning will apply to anyone else. The point of my ramblings is that on Mother’s Day this year I see a world, a society, that is in desperate need of a bit of mothering. It is also spring in New England, and we just came through a long, hard winter, and my goodness, are we in need of some blooming things in our lives and souls. I am hard pressed to take advice from humans these days, but every time I take it from the garden it seems to be just what I need, when I need it. I hope you can get outside this spring and let the earth, nature, gardens, and any good, loving force you can find in this world mother you a little bit. After all, mother knows best.