Why are we gardeners obsessed? Is it an intrinsic desire to control nature? Anyone who’s spent any significant time in a garden knows that’s impossible. Nature always bats last.
But few things are more satisfying to me than walking through my vegetable garden, snapping a bean or tomato from its vine or a raspberry from its bramble and eating it on the spot. Are the positive feelings I get from this some sort of connection to primitive instinct? A genetic imprint from a long-buried ancestor? I can definitely see a more primitive me roaming the forest and grazing on whatever edibles I can find. Some scientists say that soil-borne bacteria actually impart these good feelings. Whatever. I’ll take it.
It may be the safety I feel in my garden. I know EXACTLY how my food is grown: no pesticides, no herbicides, and fertilization with compost made from yard wastes and kitchen scraps.
Outside of the garden, why do I continuously imagine additional landscaping of my yard and flower gardens? Re-site that bush, pull the brick border out a few more inches, plant another tree, build a stone wall, search for the perfect shade plant?
I’ve come to loathe the wide expanse of unencumbered suburban lawn. Sure, it’s easy to cut, but where will the birds nest and feed? Do I really need to have 50 yards clear-cut around my home in case a thieving band of marauders attack? (I really believe Americans do this because of our pioneer roots when this was an actual concern).
Nothing feels better than being buried up to my elbows in God’s green earth, digging my potatoes, snapping an ear of corn from the stalk, smelling the rich soil after a rain, pulling the weeds, watching my garden take on a life of its own after I give it a good start. Then I take 2 Aleve for my back pain and start in again the next day.
A Pastor once told me that the only excuse to skip church on a Sunday is gardening because you’re working hand in hand with God. That feels about right.