The Landscaper era

In September 2023 , my dad had a kidney transplant. There’s plenty more to say on what would become “the miracle kidney,” but for this story’s purpose I’ll save that tale for later.

What’s important to know is that this began the conversations around grief and loss in our world. Shortly after the surgery, my dad asked me if I’d be able to help create a “feature” in the front yard. A feature? Sure. How hard could it be? We went to a local nursery to pick up a few items to create this “fall scene.”

I thought, “Great! A few bales of heigh, flowers, scarecrow…this will be easy to place.” Much to my dismay, my dad directed me to the garage to retrieve the weedwacker and pointed towards the bags of mulch. 

Wait…I’m wearing white pumas. Surely, that’s not landscaping attire. But what’s a girl to do?

The man can’t do anything and this will bring him joy. So I put on the gloves and slowly wacked some weeds…or however you say it. I couldn’t help but smile because my dad and I never did stuff like that before. Not that he could physically help me, but there was something about him guiding me through it. Physical labor is funny because it tests not only your body’s strength, but also your mental capacity. 

I thought about Yin. Where is your edge? 

My edge came when it was time to load and empty the bags of wet, red cedar mulch. For some, this may seem like light work. For me, it was arduous and required me to summon all my strength to transport from the end of the driveway to the front yard. I sliced the bag open and attempted to lift and dump.

It slipped through my trembling arms and I said, “I’m not strong enough. I’m not strong enough.” 

And that’s when it hit me. If I wasn’t strong enough for this, how would I deal with the possibility of losing my dad? I wasn’t strong enough. And yet, I had to be…

I looked around and as an only child of divorced parents with no one around to help, it was just me. There was only me who could walk this. The tears fell down my sweaty cheeks while my dad sat in his lawn chair, completely unaware of the existential crisis I was experiencing. My pain was hidden, but I had to keep going. I had to keep moving. So I took a breath, bent my knees to find strength and lifted on the exhale. 

WOOSH. Half the bag plopped out and the rush of adrenaline was enough to shake out the rest. 

I did it. 

I turned towards the rest of the bags suddenly very aware of the strength that would be required to do the rest. It’s funny how the mind works when it knows how daunting the task before us is. And yet, we still carry on.

There’s something to be said about the ability to do this. We are resilient and creative beings because we have the agency to decide how to make an experience more easeful. 

How could I make this struggle more “easeful” for myself? What would change about my self-talk or perception about the experience around me? Is there a chance this does not have to be as intense of a struggle as I perceive it to be? 

It probably goes without saying, but that’s what happened. I found another way to complete the task. Creative problem solving matched with the confidence of knowing I was capable was enough to see me to the end. 

What I didn’t realize is that this would be my preparation to lead my counseling groups through their own garden. 

After this day, I was empowered knowing that I could do this. I could make this garden happen. I was strong enough for this, and for so much more. But again, I didn’t know what was about to happen next. 

At school, the weeks to follow included many late Fridays outside with a shovel, soil and mulch. I’m sure the maintainers wondered what the 28-year-old was doing after hours on a Friday. I never minded though. There was something therapeutic about it. At that moment, I knew the garden wasn’t just for the kids. It was for me too. Nature sees us in ways that no one else can. 

You can’t hide your feelings from the outdoors. She sees all and knows all. Every tear I wept in private or sweat beads I wiped from my face, she knew.

You start to notice your thoughts more, the way you speak. When I was outside, it was like I could exist in a separate reality, one where my present stress couldn’t touch me. I could just be. 

To be honest, I knew nothing about soil health, but I knew about my health. I don’t know how to explain this fully, but when I was out there under the sun, digging up pre-existing beds, I held cracked dirt piles and knew it was cancerous for the soil. It would need to be redone. I emptied bags of soil, replacing the old with fresh fertilizer and nutrients. Eventually, it was ready for the kids to plant.

We would do this together. The soil would hold them through their unspoken traumas and fears and thoughts, the same way it was holding me through mine. 

Me, the kids, and the Earth. We would never truly be alone.