Mid-Season Growing Report

This post is dedicated to my new friend, Christine.

Mahoney Manor Gardens is a perennial source of comfort and joy. This season it has also been a site for sorrow and a container for grief. It never ceases to teach me how to live in the ‘both/and’ of life and remains a mirror, which reflects so much back to me.

In March, I spent a productive weekend cleaning up last year’s growing successes—the husks of the Mexican sunflower stalks and remnants of a zenith zinnia season. I had accumulated too many seed packets over the past few years, so I aimed to plant all these seeds in the ground or in the multiplying plastic pots laying around before swapping more seeds this fall. Throughout May, I planted seeds in spurts hopeful that I would have a bumper crop of all sorts of things. Then the spring rains came in deluges over days and weeks, and I put off planting my beloved zinnias. The seeds’ yield in containers did not perform as I had hoped.

In June, I was consumed by three Cs of summer: co-directing church camp for families, counseling youth camp, and contracting covid for a second time. In between all of that, I FINALLY planted the zinnias. They sprouted three days later and survived my absence while at camp. Then to my great shock and disappointment, the bold rabbits co-habiting with my blue-tick coonhound Ivy chewed all the leaves off the zinnia sprouts.

They had chopped down asters and hyacinth bean vines this year and in previous years, but they’d never touched my zinnias. I was taken aback by the grief and sadness I felt at this destruction. It also demonstrated how much joy and satisfaction I glean from the bursts of color and the sense of co-creation I derive from my partnership with the Divine.

And yet, this summer has still gifted me with surprises I have come to expect of my ‘serendipity gardening.’ Magenta blooms and the deep green leaves of celosia cropped up in my front and back yards. I gave away all my celosia seed before I remembered to reserve some for myself. Mother Earth must have known I’d need a pick-me-up, so she sprinkled them all over!

Fellow zinnia-grower Melissa of the Mountains assured me that if the roots were intact, my zinnias would rebound. They have indeed, but in the midst of my morning and evening promenades, the zinnias’ regrowth reminds me of the need for patience and resilience outside the garden.

I have grown so fond of my own company especially in the garden, but it does not diminish how much I miss my boyfriend who lives abroad. I miss my teenager as she continues to individuate and stand on her own two feet. The patience I expend as I wait for the zinnias to recover is not unlike the patience I must exert as I wait for my next visit with Hans.

That sense of longing extends to my grandparents as well. I always miss them, but during the growing season the ache of their absence is acute. I want to show them what I have imagined and what I have managed to accomplish—so much of it by myself.

This weekend on the tail end of a migraine, I applied my stiff and achy body to the work of digging up and relocating decorative grasses that had sprung up through three layers of river rock. The task was difficult because of how much rock and hardscaping surrounded each razor-sharp shoot. The determination and concentration required to conquer the task dulled the ache in my head. I managed to make 11 new plantings that will help slow the erosion on the hillside and fill in the open space.

The hillside is steep. With the help of the friend who repaired my fence, we cut leftover lumber into footholds and staked them to the hill. I scamper up and down much more safely now. In a recent declutter session in my garage, I discovered I could use the remaining leftovers to add even more footholds and safety to my property.

I enjoy standing at the top of my property and looking down and across at the Eden I have created. As I move ever closer to paying off the debt that accumulated in the years after my divorce, I feel better able to absorb and honor just how much I have accomplished and what I managed to maintain or enhance on a shoe-string budget.

Mahoney Manor Gardens is a living, breathing symbol of my hard work and no matter what ends up blooming or what more the rabbits eat, I know that I am standing on the sacred ground that has healed me from the inside out.