My Gardening Experience
Wakefield, MA
2025, Junior, Creative Writing
Nature has always been my passion. The moment I walk out that door and embrace the soothing tsunamis that are the Earth greeting me back to my home—be it in the backyard—I am inextricably drawn with hands to the dirt, sowing, nurturing, and enjoying my bountiful harvest with the family. Some of my most trivial yet satisfying experiences include weeding to escape munching on ants, stifling laughter when the first seedling peeks above ground to say hello, or plucking the sun-kissed tomato from the vine.
We’re not just growing food out there; we’re creating a family. We’re nurturing inter-family connections as we nurture our garden. We’re putting down roots. We’re learning from nature, and nature teaches us lessons. Nature has its seasons. The different harvests show how much we’ve accomplished and how much we’ve put down roots. There’s something satisfying about a family garden that extends year after year. There is spring where we garden, where we till up the dirt, turn it over, mix in some compost, getting our hands muddy from the dark, rich soil. We push the seeds down into the earth to plant them correctly, with care and intention. I cherish the first two weeks where nothing is showing. I go out every day, anticipating green peeking out, and when it happens, on that fateful day, it seems like magic. Good things come to those who wait.
Few things are more idyllic than a garden in peak growing season—and that season is summer. I spend hours at a time with bare feet pressed into my grassy yard, as the vines grow higher and higher, weighed down with beans and cucumbers, and the rows of tomatoes stand tall and proud, sun-kissed and getting redder each day. My garden practically grows weeds; I pick down the knobby green peppers from their branches, or I snip away the fragrant leaves from my herb garden. And I’m not alone. My family wanders outside with ad hoc baskets, for we’re always in search of something for dinner that evening. We can get practically anything for that evening meal; after all, nothing beats fresh garden goodness—from vine-ripened tomatoes still warm from the sun to the crispy head of lettuce ready to be cracked open to the basil leaf so vibrant that its scent cuts through the air on the way to its intended destination. But meals made from these garden gifts are worthy of a different treat—more satisfying, more enchanting, more delectable, as every bite is made with love from our hard work.
When the autumn days grow shorter and my garden lies dormant come winter, we finish our harvesting and preservation for the impending cold. Yes, I garden in winter, with dreams of the next growing season swirling in my mind while the earth is frozen and the trees are bare. I study seed catalogs to determine my placements for the upcoming year and assess this year’s already passed. Gardening means everything to me. It’s a hobby, a multigenerational family practice, a way of life. Therefore, when I sow my seeds, I’m sowing love to those around me.
There are few constants in life I can depend upon—even the darkest of days—but the garden. It keeps me centered. Weeding, gently watering, softly staking a wilting stem—there’s something cathartic about it. It establishes me in a grateful mindful awareness of the present—whether it’s the buzzing bees courting the flower’s anthers or the dappling sunlight piercing through the dense canopy. The garden imparts no lessons of urgency—it learns and grows when it learns how and when, and from that, it’s an unavoidable awareness of gratitude. No matter what happens outside of this microcosm, it continues to grow; it’s a soothing thought. The garden is more than food. The garden is a link to existence. The ability to cultivate and maintain, as much love as having been there will never fade in the future, even when the last harvest has been reaped. I am alive because of the memories surrounding me and my family in such natural beauty and the alterations we etched into the land; the garden is me. A little piece of earth will forever be acknowledged, living in my mind, saturated and cultivated by love every year.
Reflection
Reflection
Gardening isn't just a hobby to me. It's a way of life. I’m connected to the universe with dirt under my fingernails in the spring, summer, and fall. In the spring, I learn patience as I wait for the fruits of my labors to come to full growth; in the summer, I appreciate the challenge—and sight—as everything comes to blossom; and in the fall, I'm reminded that everything was worth it as I put my hard-earned crops away for the winter. With every interaction I have with my seasonal crop, I come away with more strength and patience. I love the seedlings of spring, the active growth of summer, and even the land clearing when winter comes. There is nothing more satisfying than life growing before us because the Earth always gives back what we put into it, and food is good for the soul. My garden reaps memories in addition to sustenance. The laughter that fills the air while we harvest, the peaceful tranquility while weeding or pruning, and the satisfaction of consuming fresh staples from our collection are all the intangibles. My garden is a place of shelter, filled with love and love to give, and even when winter settles in, covering the ground and halting the growth of my plants and the promoted growth of the earth I tend, I know that come spring, the memories and expectations for the next season let me know that my garden is always with me. My garden teaches that there's always time to bloom, that nothing is a failure that everything is an opportunity for growth, and that when love is given the time and attention it deserves, the blooms always pay off. My garden will exist forever—a constant in life while all else changes, forever there, forever being, forever growing.