Inhabiting the Identity of Gardener
A view of the backyard.
When I retired, I didn’t really know what would be next for me. I still don’t. I’m still figuring that out. Even in this period of unsettledness and transition, I find the need for some kind of identity, a sort of touchstone that I can use for determining how to spend my energy and time. Before I blew up my life, I was very much an inside, hyper-introspective, head-down kind of person. Right now, I’ve found great joy and fulfillment from working outside. I’ve been living a very outside life. Much of that life has been working in the garden.
I’ve taken up gardening for a few reasons. I’m a gardener of opportunity obviously. We moved into the cutest bungalow with so much to work with (the always mentioned azaleas and camellias, for example). I’m also a gardener of necessity. The azaleas and camellias (and hellebores and hostas) came with much to deal with (like ivy and privets [shakes fist]). Most importantly, I’m a gardener of growth and curiosity. I’ve been around gardens and gardeners. My father was raised on a farm; he knows how to grow things. My grandmother was an expert gardener and had a greenhouse when I was a child; I remember playing in her potting soil, using water to mold it into imaginary chocolate pies. My mother loves growing beautiful things; she tends to them with joy and care. I never took much of an interest in gardening, though. I was more interested in books and music growing up. My hobbies were mostly indoors and inside my mind. Just like my old life. Now, though, gardening is playing an important role for me.
Since I’ve retired, I miss learning. I miss researching. I miss design. Gardening is giving me an outlet for that. It’s given me this wonderful new connection with people in my life as well. I’m learning so much from my parents about growing vegetables, and I love exchanging stories with them about how our crops are doing. Every day, James and I walk the property. We water, and check on what’s growing and chat about how we’ll spend our day. This past weekend I had a lovely walk through the neighborhood with my sister-in-law, who taught me about hydrangea varieties and helped me see the wonder of my neighbors’ front lawns with new eyes.
The biggest gift the garden has given me thus far, though, is growth, and I don’t mean leaves and stalks and flowers. I am growing through the garden.
I am not a patient person. Okay, that’s not entirely true. I am patient with other people, generally speaking. I could not have been a successful educator without patience. What I don’t do well is wait. The garden makes me wait. It takes time for seeds to germinate, and they don’t seem to do so on a schedule.
I don’t do well with unpredictability. I do like spontaneity, and I appreciate frivolity. No, really, I’m not a joyless robot. I’m a bit deliberate, though, and I do better with at least a loose plan than with full-on winging it. The garden does what the garden’s going to do. No amount of planning and analyzing can account for all of the variables in the garden.
As a rhetorician, I understand the importance of labels. Heck, my dissertation was about categorization and match(mak)ing. As a person, I’m not great at taking on labels myself. Perhaps it’s the limitations created by labels, or it might be that labeling necessitates scrutiny. I balk at being paid too close attention to. But here and now, and for the time being, I inhabit the identity of gardener. I am not afraid to be seen enjoying something, fumbling through it, trying and failing at it.
