It is Memorial Day weekend and like so many people I was
rushing to get out of the city for the weekend. I put a load of laundry in the
wash, and on the way to water my garden I returned a plastic crate labeled l
“Live Animals” to the post office. On a cold day in February they used it to
leave a delivery of 2,000 worms for my basement compost. I planned to feed them
all of my vegetable scraps and paper to fatten them up for a few of months
before giving 1,000 of them to my dad for Father’s Day in June.
Some are scrolling up to check the blog description
because you can’t believe this is about a young Black woman living in a dense
neighborhood in Boston. For those who know me, you are smiling because you have
gotten used to hearing about hay in my trunk or me bringing a pot of greens to
a potluck made with kale and collards from my garden.
I
am straight urbanite. I cringe at the idea of living in the suburbs. I ride the
subway daily and I can tell you the routes of half of the city’s buses. I love
the boom of sound-trucks going down the street for cultural festivals. I am writing
this while wearing my Red Sox shirt because I represent for my city.
But the city has also been a source
of great pain. In the summer of 2008 I was running a youth program in Dudley
Square. There were conflicts between rival neighborhoods and we were doing
everything we could to keep young people safe and to engage them in productive
activities. I will never forget getting a call at 5am telling me that one of
youth had been shot and killed. Less than a week later I was standing in front
of the emergency room praying that another one of our youth would survive
surgery after he had been shot eight times. That summer was full of long days
and nights of broken sleep as I tried to be there for the young people with
little time to process the pain that I was experiencing.
Each morning as I prepared for the
day I would go to my living room and check on the small phalaenopsis orchid.
When I bought it there had only been one open flower, but each night the buds
would open just a bit as the flowers began to emerge in all of their glorious
beauty. That little flower gave me so much joy and was the first in a
collection that now has eight orchids. From the orchids I graduated to flower
and herbs boxes on my deck, then pots in the back yard and finally my own plot
in a community garden.
It took me years to realize that
the orchid was a sign of life and growth in a time that was filled with death
and fear. I did not know if I would lose another young person or what the day
would bring, but I was happy to know that the orchid would have made just a
little bit of progress overnight. It seems so obvious now that gardening was my
response to trauma, but at the time I thought it was just another hobby I was
picking up. The hours I was spending in the soil, the time that flew by without
my even noticing it was a healing balm for my broken heart. Every day I would
work with young people surrounded by conflict, and then my gardening time would
help to connect me with the beauty of life.
My garden awakened me to the beauty
of the natural world. Through a love of plants and the natural world I have
come to a deeper appreciation of God’s creativity and the infinite wisdom that
is demonstrated in the complex design of the creation. Before my ancestors were
converted to Christianity they believed deeply in the power of the land. Often
they were told to abandon their earth-centered religion to take on a
“civilized” religion. Increasingly, I am wondering if they understood something
powerful about God that modern Christianity has lost. I do not believe in
worship trees or dancing for rain. At the same time I do believe that the Holy
Spirit is present in the breeze and that she causes the trees to stretch their
branches towards the heavens. I believe that nature is part of God’s message to
us and I want to learn to hear more deeply and I am committed to saving this
gift for generation to come.
This morning as I went to water my
garden before getting on the road, I found one of my irises in full bloom. I
had to take a moment just to marvel at its beauty and it reminded me of how far
I have come since that summer in 2008. At that time I was focused on the roses
that grow from the concrete (if you don’t understand this reference then you
are probably not from my generation so just google – Rose from Concrete Tupac),
but now I am wondering if we should bust up a little of the concrete to make
more room for God’s creation. I still love the city, but I am also aware that I
need to surround myself with growing things and that I can’t be so focused on
progress that miss the chance to plant my feet in the soil and marvel at the
beauty of an iris.
