The first thing I ate this morning was a $60 cucumber. I washed it and set it on a cutting board, contemplating how best to use something that seemed so precious.
Sinead O’Connor was on my mind. I was jarred by the news of her death at 56. I celebrated my own 56th birthday last week. Reaching a 57th is still a possibility for me. I wish the same were true for such a talented artist and social activist.
I almost didn’t plant a garden or flower pots this year because I was feeling overwhelmed. I have spent the past year recovering from a serious cycling accident, and I have been driving to Connecticut every week to spend time with my parents. I didn’t think I’d be physically present enough to do the daily watering, weeding, and training vines to grow away from one another. Pest control would have to be a low priority this growing season.
Over the July 4th weekend, I rummaged in the shed for the seeds I’d purchased months before. No luck. I realized that I’d also need garden soil, compost, and a new trellis. I locked the shed and walked away.
I had forgotten how important gardening is to my soul. The garden lures me outside each morning. Fresh air, soft breezes on exposed skin, birdsong, warm soil, and sunshine keep the fire inside me quietly smoldering. Light rain, dirt under my fingernails, mosquitoes, and trickling sweat nudge me to process uncomfortable feelings. I work in quiet solitude. Hope is restored. The garden nurtures me as much as I nurture it.
Why has there been a pattern of waiting lately, a tendency to put things off that matter to me until a better time? What does “a better time” even mean? What if I hadn’t chosen to go to the garden store to buy seedlings and plant them this year despite all the obstacles, real and imagined?
Yesterday, the garden yielded a single ripe, sweet strawberry.
This morning, I walked to the kitchen sink. The perfect first cucumber of the summer waited on the cutting board in my peripheral vision, following me like the eyes of a cat on my back. Would it be as crisp tonight as it is right now? Why am I waiting to eat it? There are at least two others beginning to form on the vines. They’ll be ready to pick within days.
The clock reads 7:30 a.m. I take a knife and slice the sweet, crunchy cucumber thinly. The first taste summons memories of childhood summers on Coventry Lake and the ghosts of cucumbers past from my father’s vegetable garden.
The last bite of the $60 cucumber redirects my attention to the two cucumbers still on the vine. My guilt about eating such a precious fruit is assuaged by dividing the cultivation cost by three. An even higher yield on my investment is promised by the yellow blossoms that multiply daily.
In the end, though, that doesn’t matter. The final harvest count is not the yield on my investment. Tending the garden is restoring my spirit. The bottom line, what I value most, is my renewed appreciation for life.
My only regret about eating that cucumber is that I could not share it with Sinead. I wonder what simple act might have rekindled her soul’s flame. What could have fed her spirit and body just enough to keep her in this world for at least another moment?
Kimberly Lewis, a former teacher, lives in Eastham. Last week, she went surfing for the first time.
