Spring Planting

New York sunset

  If you can be spontaneously aware and knowing as you are going along with circumstances, then there is neither lack nor excess.

— Zen proverb

                         
Spring, 1997

     Dogwood and lilac flowers have faded.  Tomato seedlings plead for the soil.  Tree leaves burn bright green in the warm yellow sun.  And little boys’ voices, like the melody of falling rain, wash over me, lavish reminders of life.

     “Mom, is this how to plant it?” Jake asks, flaunting his new gardening gloves.

     The marigold is dangling, a mass of torn roots.

     “Well sort of,” I mumble.  “Push it in the ground like this.”

     Zach, the older brother, is behind the lilac hedge using his gardening skills to dig a deep hole.  The final stage of development is to fill the hole with water.  Call it the Backyard Lake Effect.

     “You wanna come and help get these flowers in the ground?” I yell over.

     “I’m doing something real important here, Mom.  Sorry.”  And, of course, he’s right.

His face is contorted with concentration.  I watch him dig.

      It is late afternoon, and my second and fourth-grader are helping with the spring planting.  New beginnings.  It is as replenishing a garden event as any autumn harvest I’ve known. 

      Their intensity moves me.

     Their laughter restores me.

     Their up-cast eyes seeking affirmation, affirm me.

     Jake’s knees are dark brown with potting soil.  The sun reflects golden-brown off his hair, curling around the bottom of his baseball cap.  He wears the cap backwards and it is slightly torn, the way he likes it.  His cheeks freckle in the light.  His mouth is in constant motion.

     “I planted five so far, Mommy.  Should I put an orange one here?”

     “You’re so happy,” I say, kneeling beside him, attention on our marigold placement.

     “You can tell because I’m talking so much,” Jake says.  And, of course, he’s right.  We smile.

     This, quite simply, is the reward.  Time slowed.  Moments found precious.  Yet, so easily, I forget.  I lose hold of it until something shakes me and wakes me, again.  It is a pattern I repeat.  So now, I hold Jake’s eye, and record it.  I eye Zach’s foot wedged against the shovel, and file it.  I let these moments vibrate inside my chest, then place them into the scrapbook of my mind.  

      Through single-pointed attention, the stuff of everyday becomes rich, like the spring rain.  Rich, like the dank smell of dirt and the heavy heat of noon and the sound of whipping wind.  Rich, like an afternoon with the boys.  This is the ordinary magic of my world.

     Jake follows me into the garage and helps measure two scoops of Miracle Grow into the watering can.  Holding steady, he fills it with water.  Together, we carry the can over and fertilize our newly planted flowers.  I place a hand on his cap and feel the warmth of his head.  A benediction.  Some miracle grow for Jake: to protect him, to keep him safe, to make him strong.  

     The directions should say: fertilize often while young.  Time is short.  Soon the elements will take over.  

     Zach flies by on his bike.  “See ya, Mom.”  He’s off to find a fallen branch to pry an obstinate rock out of the hole he’s digging.  His face is red beneath his helmet.  Brows are knitted.  He bumps, purposely, over loose gravel, for the thrill of a rough ride.  “Carry the branch back,” I call after him, “Not on your bike!”  I rest my cheek in my hand and pray for more Miracle Grow.

     Jake is talking about school and his friend, Patrick and baseball practice.  I put down my hoe and sit cross-legged on the grass in front of him.  I watch his mouth forming the words.  He talks about summer camp and his upcoming eighth birthday and how plants breathe in carbon dioxide and breathe out oxygen and how amazing it is that everything in the world seems to fit somehow.

     Zach speeds over the driveway with a large branch draped across his handlebars.  I hear the words “Oh God!” in my head, before I get up, breath held.  I watch Zach skid to a perfect stop inches from the backyard hole project.  It’s time for my “That’s why God gave you a brain” talk.  The helmet, alone, I share, is not enough to protect him. 

     “In seven years you’ll be in college,” I scold him, “and I’ve only got so much time left to get this stuff in your head.”  I try not to sound too frantic.  I look at him looking at his feet. Close to his ear, I whisper, “You need to look both ways in life.”  

     Lifting the helmet, I kiss his forehead.

     “Hey, Mom!” Jake interrupts.  “Shouldn’t we bring the marigolds to my room?  I think they’ll be much safer there.”  

     “No, honey,” I say, pulling his overall strap back onto his shoulder.  “They belong out here with the sun and the rain.  Don’t worry.  We’ve given them lots of fertilizer.”  

     I hear myself speak.  “They’ll be just fine.”