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A stiff breeze makes us stronger

Did you know tomato plants grow better in the wind? Me neither, but my son’s high school science project gave undeniable proof. Then I got to thinking: is the same true for authors?

First, the tomatoes. Phase one of his experiment proved that tomato seeds germinated faster when fed green tea rather than just water, which was the first clue that maybe these fruits with the veggie reputation are pretty smart. Then today, after three months of careful lab work, my young scientist presented me with two clear cups, the kind that in the goold ole days would have been filled with beer at a Rawlins Cross concert … but I digress. In one cup were two scraggly little sprouts, the sort of thing I’m famous for nurturing straight to the compost. In the other, though, were a half dozen sturdy green seedlings staking their claims and reaching for the sun. The difference? The sturdy guys were given an hour a day in front of a low-speed fan. It seems the breeze encourages the stalks to grow stronger, which leads to healthier, faster-growing plants.

Huh. Who knew.

“Well, you might have, if any of your plants ever lived long enough,” my darling boy suggested as he kissed his plants goodbye and donated them to my kitchen garden … or what I hope will be a kitchen garden, if not everything decomposes by July. Sweet child. Long on honesty, short on tact and the awareness that one should never disrespect the hand that does their laundry. I could have pointed out that he is growing just fine, thank you very much, and might grow better if he did his own laundry but again, I digress.

Now, for these tomato plants to stay healthy, the breeze needs to be moderate to light, not steady or hurricane-force. There also needs to be stability in other conditions – water but not too much, sunlight but not too warm, all the usual things. But to see the two cups side by side is fascinating; a force no one could see and can only partially control rendered one group weak and caused the other to thrive. Could we, by any chance,  be like tomato plants? We instinctively seek shelter for ourselves and those we love, discourage entry into the hint of a storm, but does that keep us safe or weaken our spirit? When we survive a challenge, meet a goal, win a competition, or navigate an obstacle, we feel a sense of accomplishment, pride, energy. Placed in a stiff breeze on a regular basis would we not grow stronger as well? Resistance in the gym builds muscle; resistance in life ‘builds character’, our grandfathers would grumble. Perhaps they were on to something, and not just trying to get their kids doing the grownup work for them.

When I began this exploration 17 days ago, I felt like I was in the throes of a hurricane. Set something down, it goes spinning out of reach. Try to focus on one thing, six others become lost. The despair, the sensation of being pushed off course, the air being sucked from my lungs, even the roaring in my ears all mirrored the feeling of being caught in a windstorm. That strength of breeze doesn’t grow things, it destroys them. My decision to let go of my book for now, turn attention inward, and take baby steps back toward my path gave shelter from the storm. With every choice I make and every promise I keep to myself, the window is widened and the breeze grows stronger. Will I grow stronger, too? We’ll see. In the meantime, I may have the best kitchen garden ever, with tomatoes that actually live to bear fruit.

Thanks for listening! See you tomorrow.

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Have you smiled at a plant today?

I had fresh thyme on my salmon tonight. Tiny green leaves, world of flavour, 15 steps away on my front deck. Cheap, too. $3 per plant at the farmers market. And a miracle, firstly because it hasn’t died, and because in the next few months it could double its size. Plants in our world are everywhere: underfoot, overhead, on our window sills, in our gardens. They also inhabit a special place in our emotions. My sweet little grandmother became an axe murderer when a dandelion dared to appear on her lawn. The scent of wild roses takes my mother back to her childhood on Nova Scotia’s rocky, salt-kissed south shore. The smell of lilacs, well, we all know there is a special story there. Someday, you’ll get to read it …. But enough about that for the moment. Love them for food and beauty or detest them as weeds, plants are wondrous. Some lucky people can grow them. I’m working on my gardening skills, because there is peace to be found in the dirt, a sense of purpose to be seen in living creations that are rooted yet unique. My gift to self today: appreciate a plant, any plant. My herb garden. My perennials that grow despite my lack of empathy. The neighbours’ lush cedar bushes. And of course, for a few days yet, the lilacs. Book or no book, they’re still beautiful.

Thanks for reading. See you tomorrow.

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From the gardening trowel of babes

I spent a lovely evening with my son at a gardening class a few nights ago. It would have been cheaper to take him out drinking. We’d at least have payback from the empties, unlike what I’ll get when these plants follow the proud tradition of those who have been potted before them, which is up and die.

What won’t die this time, though, are the memories of his patience as I listened to the gardener speak plainly and slowly, then tried to translate his simple commands into visible action. An entire greenhouse at my disposal with any plant I wanted to use (and buy, of course). Helpful staff. A warm, pleasant evening. All odds were in my favour but still, my project looked like a reject from toddler day at the flower show.  “No, your container doesn’t look like hers,” my son murmurs in a tone surprisingly mature for 14, “but that doesn’t me an it’s ugly.” He pats my hand and points to a bench bursting with blooms.  “Here, try these.”

Selecting five random plants, he trowels, inserts, tamps down, and waters, his sturdy 6-foot frame curled over my container like Merlin in his quest for gold. Standing tall to reveal his work, the mixed blooms blend into a floral family right before my eyes.

Like the chapters in my books. At first, I love them, the idea, the flow. Then I hate them. Everyone else’s books read better, sound better, sell better. I push back from the keyboard in resigned exasperation. I sow hopelessness and resignation under a thick layer of gloom upon all with the misfortune to cross my path. Then someone comes along and calms me down with a focused dose of reality. Sometimes, it is my muse. Or a child whispering “I love you, Mommy, even though your books don’t sell.” Or an angel bearing Margaritas. Whatever the wakeup call, I squint in the newfound sun and in the immortal words of my great-grandmother, I get over myself, go back to my screen and keep going. It doesn’t sound like their stories because it is mine, flaws and gaps and all.

And in the fading glow of the evening sun, I listen to my son, not bearing Margaritas but marigolds, amid words for which my frustration is no match.

No, my container doesn’t look like hers. But it is still beautiful.

His talent does not go unrecognized. His glow of pride as his container is complimented by passing staff and gardeners is outshone only by the glow of my credit card as it bears the pressure of tuition, soil, baskets, and plants with names straight from outer space and pedigrees to match, given the price of the little darlings. But even if I kill every last one, the money spent will pale to the memory no one can erase, dismember or otherwise take away. How often does a teen want to hang with his mom? There’s the priceless gem.

There’s one in every torment, waiting for those willing to dig in the dirt and bring it to light.

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The Need To Get Dirty

When one does not know what to write, it is a time to get dirty.

I mean gardening, folks. At least for today.

Me writing anything on gardening gives life to the saying: ‘those who can, do; those’ who can’t, write about it.’ A green thumb I have not. My photo is on the wall of every gardening centre within 100 miles, under the caption: Do Not Sell To This Woman Without Proof of Supervision. My garden isn’t a wellspot of new life; it’s palliative care for the flora and fauna set. Comments on my garden bypass the usual niceties of “My, how your hydrandgea is blooming,” straight to the ‘Wow, it’s not dead yet. How did you manage that?” My garden is not the place, you would think, to spark any kind of creative flow.

But it does. For one thing, gardening is best done outdoors. There is warmth from the sun, cool from the breeze or, for the more hardy, the wet kiss of rain or chilling boot to the arse of a northeast gale. But there is sensation, temperature change, a tingling on the skin just from standing there. Breathe in, and there are scents: earthy, flowery, and yes, manmade, too, and while your neighbour’s incinerated offerings of barbecue may not be the most delightful of aromas, there is still an engagement of brain, a spurring of thought. What is that charred carcass on his plate? What if this mild-mannered manager by day becomes a pet-chomping carnivore by the light of the grill? And there you have it: a story idea, just like that.

Now for the really good stuff. On your knees, amid weeds and rocks and clumps of soil are tiny sprouts reaching skyward despite the odds. Feel it through your fingertips and up your arm, earth warm from the sun, damp from the rain. Poke a hole, drop a seed or a tiny clumping of roots, cover, repeat. orderly, fragrant, backbreaking, but necessary if the dirt is to bloom, if the tomatoes on your summer salad are to be sun-kissed rather than factory-sprayed.

You rise stiffly, joints creaking, hands caked in mud, and look down at something you have accomplished staring back at you. For the two minutes or two hours you’ve been in the garden, you haven’t thought once about the blank page  on your screen, the missing word that taunts you, the hackneyed sentence begging for an edit. But you have been writing. After soap suds chase the mud down the drain and beverage suds rehydrate body and spirit, you’ll see them. Words begging to be planted, the blank screen a garden ready for its gardener.

How do the seasons influence your writing? Happy Spring!