Just yesterday, I put my hands into the soft earth and planted a new bright pink geranium. The morning sun peeked out through animal-shaped clouds and I was alone. My mind let go of my to-do lists and some of its worries as I repetitively scooped the dirt and dumped it into the pot, replacing an older succulent that had failed to thrive.

Regrow

Truly, the task was a metaphor for my life—how some things have seeded, bloomed, taken off and soared.  While others haven’t survived due to lack of care, the right soil, turbulent winds or epic heat. And so I replant, re-water, repeat.

And regrow.

I do this with (but mostly without) my kids.

A Pandemic Pastime

When so much shut down from a global pandemic, I turned to gardening. Throughout these past two years, it has been my happy place in a world that often seems heavy and chaotic. As a mother of two young girls, it is a space I can slip into when they become overwhelming in their demands and needs. At the same time, when my patience is recovered, it is also a way for me to spend time with my children and teach them the ways of the land.

April is a perfect month to begin the cycle of growing again, whether it’s starting a new garden or tending to the one you already have. You can do this with or without your kids. I often take my daughters by the hand and have them spread seeds of their choosing into the earth. Some sprout, and many don’t, but it gives us an opportunity to do a meaningful task together.

Mostly, I try to find time for myself and attempt to create the garden I want. I wander my local nursery, searching for pops of color to brighten my space. Sometimes I’ll take my daughters with me and have them each pick out a plant they want to take care of, hoping to pass down my love of gardening into their own veins.

I’ve found that whether gardening with your kids or without, this is an ideal time to plant whatever seeds that you may wish to tend to and watch with pride as they bloom.

Creating My Own Space

My love of gardening was passed down to me from my mother, who got it from her father. I remember vividly my grandparents’ backyard, the way my grandfather kept plum trees, apricot trees, and rows of roses.

My mother has always tended to her own garden and most of what she plants thrives. She cares for her garden like no other, spending hours weeding, sifting soil, repotting and replanting varieties. Gardening is also a way I bond with my mother in law, as we send each other pictures of our plants that have managed to bloom. I am lucky to have two women I care for in my life share the same pastime as me.

Each of our gardens is different. We each have our own individual space with which to work. I know not everyone has land to work with, but hopefully there is a little nook against the edge of a windowsill with which to place a small plant or two. My succulents seem to like such a place, as they crane their necks towards the sun outside the window. And my Peace Lily on my front porch has grown twice its size as it welcomes guests.

I am grateful for a small backyard with which to create my gardening oasis. I have more pots than I know what to do with and often my plants receive too much California sun, but it is a place that ebbs and flows along with the edges of time. My daughters run along the grass and pull leaves off of plants for their makeshift soups, while I cut the stem of one red rose that has managed to grow. In those moments, I am happy.

Gardening With My Kids

Last year, my two daughters and I tried out planting fruits and vegetables in a raised garden bed that my husband built. It was the first time I had done anything of the sort and it came with many hits and misses, as gardening often does. For us, zucchini and squash did really well, strawberries multiplied easily, tomatoes thrived, spinach simply died, and we managed to eek out two small bell peppers that were supposed to be red, but ended up just remaining green.

It was a great way to teach my daughters about how such food is grown—it doesn’t magically appear at the grocery store. And a bonus of trying my hand at growing fruits and vegetables is that sometimes my kids will actually want to try them.

Every year, we spread native wildflower seeds and watch to see what grows. Sometimes we get nothing but a few sprigs of marigold and other times we get unique flowers that bring about butterflies, bees, and hummingbirds. My girls love throwing the dirt on the ground and sprinkling the seeds into the earth. (Truly, they love any chance to get dirty.) To see the actual fruits of such labor is exciting.

Gardening Without My Kids

More often than not, I garden alone. I root my feet into the earth—sometimes barefoot—and don’t mind the dirt that nestles beneath my fingernails or the shards of greenery that fall upon my legs. It is a form of therapy for me, having the sun settle onto my back and my hands full of the flowers I wish to grow.

There is a sense of pride in my garden, as many of my plants were given to me and are full of memories. I have pots overflowing with amaryllis from my mother in law that (so far) have bloomed every spring. I have daffodils from my mother that come in shades of white and a brilliant yellow. I have pink plumeria from an old neighbor, iris that was given to me by a new neighbor, and geraniums from a friend who moved across the country and couldn’t take them with her. I have roses that were here when I moved into this house and the native plants I have begun to cultivate, such as varieties of sage, and a pink salvia that decided to just grow on its own without me planting it.

My Garden

This garden is my garden. It has grown with love, time, patience, and the (occasional) help from my kids–sometimes slowly, but always from a place of pure joy and happiness.