I Am My Mother's Garden

Taking a stroll through my mother’s garden is like taking a stroll through her very soul: a colorful patchwork of love, shaped by dedication and good will. In fact, it seems a day hardly passes without smudges of dirt accompanying the smile on her face. 

A nurturer by nature, she suits the garden well. And more often than not, she can be found there, tirelessly weaving her masterpiece with sweat on her brow and optimism in her heart. 

My mother is a superb gardener, forever catering to her garden’s needs while simultaneously fulfilling her own. She supplies nutrient-rich soil and life-giving water for strong root development. She provides sturdy arbors for vines to grow upon, and skillfully prunes misdirected branches into graceful shapes. And with the patience of a saint, she lovingly coaxes vulnerable plants back to life. Always dependable, her garden thrives.

But what I admire most about my mother is her easygoing approach to gardening. She allows plenty of time and space for experimentation and fluctuation. She welcomes challenges, for she knows challenges lead to knowledge and evolution. She embraces improvisation and the exciting outcome to which it leads. After all, going with the flow is the only way to grow!

So what if a pot breaks? She just nestles it into the garden, pretty side up, and considers it art. And if a begonia stem breaks? No worries. She just roots it in a jar of water and is trilled to then have two! 

Come to think of it, my mother mothers like she gardens. In fact, I am my mother’s garden.

I am the vulnerable seedling, the colorful patchwork, the strong oak and the repurposed flower pot. 

Thank you, Mom, for providing the nourishment with which to grow healthy roots and a solid foundation. Thank you for staking my trunk upright when the weight of the world pulls it down. Thank you for encouraging me to pick my own weeds. Thank you for allowing my brambles to ramble without judgement and for adoring my blooms even when they arrive late. And when my thorns pierce through your gloves, pricking your helpful hands, thank you for not letting go. But most of all, I thank you for understanding that even the most established, mature gardens still need a gardener’s care. 

I am my mother’s garden. It flourishes because of her.