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He who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe,
is as good as dead; his eyes are closed.
-Albert Einstein-

We have what appear to be a clump of three dead Elm trees teetering on the water’s edge between our two docks. The one wedged in the middle is dead for certain, the only thing holding him in place are the two nearly dead ones flanking him. I don’t know why I have assigned a gender (him) to the three of them but likely because they seem big and gnarly and masculine, like the type of man that I would cross the street to avoid.

For five winters now, we keep expecting them to fall into the water after a storm or heavy snowfall, but they consistently surprise us with their stubborn attachment to their birthplace - the earth that roots them and continues to feed them. They do seem to have lost their ability to flourish as the two that remain somewhat alive, only produce a minimum of leaf growth on a couple of branches - the only obvious sign of life they present to the world.

Why won’t they give up? Their trunks are full of holes, large and small, created by woodpeckers. The bases of their trunks have been whittled by beavers. Most of their upper branches have been snapped off by wicked winds over time. And yet, each spring, just when we think the previous winter has laid them to rest, they prove us wrong and sprout some leaves. I never really thought of myself as a “tree-hugger”, but I have become more and more respectful of nature and the environment in the last couple of decades, so until these statuesque Elms are well and truly dead, I will leave them be.

The thing is, they are an eyesore along our shoreline and they actually pose a threat to one of the docks as they lean in such a manner, that they could land on it, possibly destroying it, if and when they give way. If assisted suicide were a viable option for trees, I would support their choice.

My father is an old Elm tree now, the only thing keeping him alive are medications and some ancient inner desire to live no matter the impact on the people around him. Perhaps this sounds harsh but it is the reality of his life now.

He is incapable of caring for himself in any way. He cannot walk or talk or feed himself. He mostly sleeps and when he is awake for short periods of time, he cannot communicate. His existence is reliant on the other Elm trees flanking him. Namely, my mother and the many caring nurses and health care workers at the full time care home where he withers away. Why won’t he give up?

This is not a unique scenario. Countless families around the world have been on this gruelling journey. Watching a relative, once a vibrant, functioning being, lying in a bed with nothing left to give and no quality of life whatsoever seems inhumane. I have advised my own friends and family to just hold a pillow over my head and help me along to the next world if I end up like that. With any luck, I will know when my time is coming and take care of that business myself.

I am not afraid to die but I am terrified of not living.

Perhaps it is time for me to have a chat with the dying Elms - a planned farewell ritual of sorts. I could get some Sacred Sage sticks for smudging and dance around the base of their trunks on a full moon and chant some wise words to guide them into the next life. Would this be the permission they need to move on? I really grapple with this - being dead while you are still alive. Why the prolonged and agonizing departure, reminiscent of that one person you know who takes forever to say goodbye at the front door, like bloody Columbo, his cigar raised slightly,…”and one more thing”. Ugh! Just go home already!

My father’s time has come. The Elm trees time has come.

Giddy up.




#deathanddying #assistedsuicide #lifeisfortheliving

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At its root, perfectionism isn’t really about a deep love of being meticulous. It’s about fear. Fear of making a mistake. Fear of disappointing others. Fear of failure. Fear of success.
-Michael Law-

Perfectionism is a hard habit to break. I speak from experience. It wasn’t always a negative trait. In fact, it boded well for most of my working life in interior design. Those magazine worthy spaces didn’t just happen naturally. I didn’t just back up a truck, dump some fancy Italian furniture and accessories into an empty white room and call it a day.  As anyone with an eye for detail will tell you, it takes hours and days and weeks (sometimes months or years) to plan and gather and create perfect rooms and homes, often turning lemons into lemonade or in my case, a blank canvas into a Picasso.

The problem with being a perfectionist is it is a recipe for burn out because eventually you learn it is impossible. Life is messy. Moving from the city to the country has revealed this reality with all the subtlety of a bull in a China shop. Or, in fitting with the landscape here, the fall of a century old Elm tree crashing into the water mere inches from our dock. I was preparing dinner one evening in March while it was doing its best to go “out like a lion” when I heard what I can only describe as the sound a slap of a Brontosaurus tail into our lily pond. It was a cloudy, starless night so I did not discover the source of this mystery whooshing sound until morning.

We knew the tree had been dead for as long as we have lived here and probably for many years prior so it wasn’t a surprise when its roots and the surrounding soil holding it in place finally gave way with one giant gust of wind that stormy night. We had spent many evenings dockside contemplating the future of that tree. Can we cut it down? Are we allowed to? Do we hire a tree service? It really was an eyesore…to us. But if you were to ask the Pileated Woodpeckers, squirrels, chipmunks, minks and beavers their humble opinions, well, they just would have called it “home”. Clearly they hadn’t inherited the perfectionism gene.

A funny thing had started to happen to me after we moved here to Kyeema North. Mother Nature was softening my hard edges - my need to trim and sculpt my surroundings until every blade of grass was even and weeds were poisoned and trees were pruned to resemble my version of what a tree should look like. It was as unnatural as Michael Jackson’s nose or Lisa Rinna’s lips. Had I thought for a moment to consult Mother Nature for her opinion, she would have told me in no uncertain terms that it was already perfect, as were the celebrity faces. The woodpeckers were hastily evicted without notice - the stores of nuts carefully stashed in its many holes were cast into the muddy shallows and the curve of the trunk created a perch at the top end poking up out of the water like the masthead on a pirate ship.  

Come spring, after the ice melted,  it became a much loved turtle resort. Lining themselves along the trunk like shiny oiled up beach babes, sunning themselves, these new tenants were in Paradise. I imagined they would draw straws each morning to see who got to sit on the tip - masthead “maiden of the day”. Some days, frogs would share their new found beach. Whenever I would approach the dock, the entire lot of them would decide it was time for a swim. Splashing sounds would fill the air as I  frantically tried to get a photo before they all disappeared into their murky pool. This is how they have been spending their spring and summer here at Kyeema North or “Camp Long Stump” as it was called in the brochure.

They had me now. How could I dare take all this away from them?

The tree would remain. Rest in peace right where it was. No one was going to accuse me of ripping away a frog and turtle habitat. Still, the view of that massive upturned Elm root system clotted with mud and clumps of embedded rocks was, from my POV, pretty nasty looking - evil almost. So our dockside chats became creative idea sessions on what we could do to improve the “curb appeal” as we descended the rickety steps to the dock. There was talk of building a wooden screen around the ugliest section and thoughts of a chainsaw sculpture but apparently all that rock and soil are bad for the chain and wouldn’t that be leading us into “unnatural” territory?

As time passed and we had moved on to more pressing matters, we stopped thinking about the unsightly stump. After awhile, like our slowly expanding waistlines, we stopped noticing it so much. By May, it had started to sprout. Not the tree itself, but organic life began appearing in all the nooks and crannies of the bark on the trunk and the roots - anywhere a wayward seed landed, it grew. The dead Elm had become a breeding ground for lost souls. That’s when I decided to help it along and add some seeds of my own. Prettier seeds (always the decorator). I wasn’t sure if the thin layers of soil that remained on the root system would be enough of a foundation for them, but sure enough, now that gnarly old uprooted Elm tree is a natural flower pot - the decaying wood a source of nourishment. The Nasturtium seeds I planted are beginning to blossom giving the fallen Elm a proper burial with flowers beginning to form a garland around its exposed raw roots.

We don’t always have the opportunity to see the circle of life as clearly as this. We are witnessing this  dead Elm tree - feeding new life so obviously, as though his fall wasn’t really his last swan song. If he could talk he might say, “I may be ancient and dead but there is an incarnation happening here. In my last life, my purpose was to provide shade and a place for birds to perch and I prevented erosion. I was busy. This time around, I am a food source and a resting spot for frogs and turtles and a throne for
Great Blue Herons.  I may not look perfect but I am still useful.”

In my previous life, It is unlikely I would have seen a fallen tree in the same way. I see many things differently now. Dandelions are no longer a pesky weed - they are food for bees. Shoreline shrubs are not scruffy tangles to be slashed to the ground - they prevent erosion. The wildflowers in the meadow are butterfly magnets. I’m not just getting older, I’m gathering wisdom. Living in harmony with the flora and fauna that surrounds me has required me to leave my perfectionistic tendencies behind in the city. You won’t find any manicured lawns or potted topiary trees flanking the front door here at Kyeema North. And I have gladly traded in my Stuart Weitzman pumps for Birkenstocks but…

As the ultimate queen of perfection, Martha Stewart, would say, (and I agree)

“It’s a good thing.”

Freedom is the Oxygen of the Soul.
-Moshe Dayan-


Planting seeds indoors got underway in late March this year at Kyeema North. While shopping in the local Home Hardware for my seeding soil, I came across these kits that included tiny coir pots, a holder and a transparent lid (a nod to greenhouse glass) that seemed clever. In past winters, I have used whatever small pots I have stashed under my potting bench but this seemed far easier and so I bit.

It was all going swimmingly and by early May my Zinnias and Beets and assorted other plants were ready to harden off and get into the ground. One of the handy features of these coir seedling pots was the claim that you could just plant the whole organic thing right into the ground without removing the pot. I was hesitant, the experienced gardener in me, suspicious of such ideas, so I met the instructions halfway and cut off the bottom of each potted seedling before tucking it into the soil, giving the roots a quicker exit route.

Shortly thereafter, I was out of town for a week, leaving Mick in charge of the watering and plant-sitting. When I got home, eager to check the growth of the plants in my beds, I was disappointed to see not much had happened. In fact the seedlings looked positively scrawny. Hmmmff, thought I, he couldn’t have watered them enough! Not knowing for sure and not wanting to accuse him of neglecting my “babies”, I immediately got on top of their need for moisture and let another week go by.

Every morning, as most obsessed gardeners do, I did my inspection rounds, much like an expectant mother standing sideways in the mirror to monitor my growing bump. These daily rounds were fraught with disappointment. My seedlings were not performing at all. Had I planted too early? Did my soil need amending? Too much water? Too little water? Had my green thumb turned brown?

Three weeks passed and now my garden was behind. I started looking at photos comparing previous season’s growth patterns. Was it the weather? I knew the answer to that question. No. Maybe some sort of grub had been chewing on the roots. I decided to uproot a seedling to get a better look at what was happening beneath the surface and that’s when I discovered what the problem had been all along. The coir pots! The seedling’s root system was not penetrating the coir walls. It was too thick and too hard and despite all the watering, was not softening. These damn pots  were choking my tiny green babies to death. I was livid. Why had I tried this new method? Why had I not stuck with years of tried and true techniques? My babies could not spread their wings.

What little growth had taken place was straight down into the soil, like a root on a mission to the opposite side of the world. (If I keep digging mom, where will I end up? China, of course.) The problem with roots headed straight to China from Canada, with blinders on, is there are no stops along the way to check out things in other places, like say, Polar Bears in Hudson Bay or hiking up Machu Picchu, or watching the sunrise at The Haleakala Crater. Nope. Those roots weren’t developing - they were bolting through life without any detours.

The healthiest plants and shrubs and trees spread their roots far and wide, feeling and touching and seeing the world beyond their upright appearance, like a worldy, well-travelled soul. My seedlings had no chance of becoming fully formed, flourishing adults. Their life experience was stunted, one-dimensional and closed off to adventure and learning.

I had to free them!  Trowel in hand, I started to release my beloved Zinnias, digging them up, unearthing their tiny fragile and tender root systems - stripping away the coir prisons that were  holding them back. I undressed the  Sunflowers, the Castor Beans, the Nasturtiums…all the garden beds were uprooted and replanted naked and unencumbered by the restrictive walls that were holding them back from the life they deserved.

After the carnage, I looked at the scattered and torn coir sheaths laying askew about the edges of my beds- dried remnants of a botanical authoritarian regime, and, panting, wiped the sweat from my brow. For over an hour, I had waged a war against an enemy I had not been able to see until I dug deeper.

Since the replanting, my garden is thriving.

I won’t be fooled again.

Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.

-Mary Oliver-



When I recently read this stanza from the poem - Sometimes, by the late Mary Oliver, I had an “aha” moment. YES! YES! I shouted to myself…that is what I do! That is how I use social media. I see, I snap, I share. Look at that pond full of water lilies! Everyone needs to see this I think. Not everyone can, so I take several photos from different angles. I zoom in. I zoom out. Later when I get home, I review the images and carefully choose the photos I believe tell the story of what I saw. This is why I stopped my car, or wandered off the trail or paddled into shallow water.

By paying attention to my environment, I have often discovered the most astonishingly beautiful flora and fauna that might otherwise have gone unnoticed. My natural state as I wander through this world is one of awe. The play of light in the late afternoon and early evening attract my attention like a mini skirt at a construction site. I just have to stop what I am doing and immerse myself in the amber glow of what is commonly referred to as the golden hour. Photographers and film makers have long known this to be the ideal time for shooting. It enhances everything it touches.

During the long light-filled days of summer in Canada, it has always been my favourite time to poke around in my garden. The calm. The quiet. The serenity. The hour prior to dusk - a signal that whispers, slow down now. Your earlier pace of  doing this, and rushing there are done. There is no need for hurry or have-to’s. This is my time, or your time. I’m not alone in my basking in Zen here at Kyeema North. The deer saunter onto the lawn from the forest, casually grazing, owning it like they once did and think they still do. A beaver slides effortlessly through the glassy, still water toward his feeding spot amidst the lily pads. Bees, laden with pollen bumble from blossom to blossom now, a heaviness in their flight, barely able to lift their striped fat bottoms and carry themselves home. Even the Osprey, belly full from an earlier hunt and feast, seems to swoop and glide through the cooler evening air with less of an agenda.

I am not separate from any of this. The deer, the beaver, the bees, and the Osprey have included me in their inner circle. There is no threat. No fear. None of us are startled or alarmed. Sometimes I talk to them - whomever comes close. The Hummingbirds seem more curious than George himself. First the hum, then the pause, mere inches from my face, then the swoosh as she departs. Was I invading her territory? I wonder. Or, was she just stopping to show off - the amber light giving her added radiance?

Perhaps these many golden hours I have witnessed and absorbed all these years were a foreshadowing. This is what lies ahead - the slowing, the calm, the perfect light, the appreciation of it all. It was always there. At 20, 30, 40, 50, 60.

The glimpses, like breadcrumbs, leading me to the here and now. For years, that amber light dangled like the proverbial carrot with promises of more peaceful evenings than I could ever imagine. And now that I am here and embracing this magic night after night, I never want it to end. This spell-binding loop I find myself in, like I have the prettiest horse on the carousel.

Who wouldn’t want to share this? Keeping it all to myself seems selfish. So Mary, wherever you are now, if it is anything like golden hour…I’m in.

After one practise walk to school when I was four, I was on my own. It wasn’t even a hand held walk with my mother or father. They enlisted the 7 year old across the street to show me the ropes. Her name was Dale and her mother had a hair salon off the kitchen of their house. I was in awe of her and her mother (Josie), who once cut my hair into that Pixie style that was so popular in the early 60’s. I hated it. My once long locks swept into the rubbish, removing any obvious sign that I was a girl into the trash can. I was devastated. “I look like a boy!”. I pouted for days while my mother relished the break she was getting from the challenge of having to comb the tangles out of my former style. (Straight and long with an odd bump underneath at the nape of my neck) I had not heeded the warnings. “If you don’t learn to comb those knots out of your hair, I am going to get Josie to cut it all off!”

A few times after that first day of Kindergarten, I remember trying to catch up with Dale who always seemed half a block ahead of me, but she soon grew weary of my idle 4 year old chit chat whenever I did manage to run fast enough and after the first week of school, she must have started leaving earlier or later because I never saw her much after that. It was only about a three block walk in a bit of a zig zag and one fairly busy major street to cross, but I would have enjoyed some company.

This is one of my earlier memories of realizing I was going to have to figure out my life without much input from adults. The term “Helicopter Parent” had not been invented in the 60’s, much less practised. Homework was not a family affair. Play dates were not arranged. Sunscreen was not applied. My first swimming lesson consisted of my father hurling me into a backyard pool. Sink or swim baby. In fourth grade, I got a tennis racquet; a gift for passing from third to fourth grade but it didn’t come with any lessons, so I used to walk to the closest public courts (across railroad tracks that I was told to stay away from “or else”) and hit the 3 balls I owned to an invisible partner across the net, walk around, retrieve them and repeat from the opposite side. I didn’t know anyone with a racquet. Despite my lack of an opponent, I loved hitting those (then white) balls.

One day during one of my solo matches, a young teenage boy approached me and told me there was a sign-up sheet for lessons posted near the courts, so I scribbled my name on the list and started going twice a week for some basic training, without even telling my parents. I’m pretty sure they were free as part of a community program. I had no guidance whatsoever as to what to wear. My footwear would have been a pair of white Keds that started out clean and white the day school let out and would be filthy grey by summer’s end. In fact, we used to step on our own feet so they didn’t look so new. (it was a thing). No hat, no water bottle, no sunscreen, no clue. That was the last time I had any tennis lessons until I was in my mid 30’s.
 
You know that question you hear asked sometimes - “If you could have been anything in life, what would you have been?” I always give the same answer. A professional tennis player. This leads me to the point I want to make here today. The importance of a solid foundation cannot be underestimated. Strong root growth with healthy soil and room to spread out creates the best blooms, the biggest tomatoes, the tallest trees and the majority of the most successful adults in nearly every field. This is not always a hard and fast rule, but it sure doesn’t hurt.

Case in point. The photo at the top of this story of three sunflowers in three pots. Papa pot. Mama pot and Baby pot. The seeds for these sunflowers came from the same seed packet. The soil was from the same bag. The large pot has produced the strongest, tallest, healthiest result because the roots had room to grow and more nutrients feeding them. Of the three, it had the foundation for growth and excellence, while the smaller pots will never reach the same heights of glory as their buddy on the far left. Their seed needed to be planted in a bigger pot.

Just as I needed help as an 8 year old to become a better tennis player. I didn’t get the foundation I needed or the nurturing required to go somewhere with my old wooden Slazenger. Like the smaller sunflowers, I worked with what I got. It wasn’t until many years later that I picked up a racquet again and started to feed myself with lessons and club memberships and hours and hours of practice hitting balls against the local high school wall and drills with my tennis playing ex-husband that I finally felt I could compete at a club level. (There is even a Ladies Doubles Club League trophy/plaque out there collecting dust with my name on it mounted on a clubhouse wall - the best I ever got) By then, any dream I might have had of serious competition was shattered. Contrary to the current advice from everyone who has ever written a self help book, there are some things in life that become out of reach with age.  

As grateful as I am to have learned to play tennis later in life, and the amazing women I have met and befriended because of it,  I will always wonder…

“What if?”.

Refusing to die, many of the plants in my garden that have been ravaged by deer, are producing secondary shoots and leaves and new smaller buds. The large heads of sunflowers that were breakfast for this hungry buck who hangs around here have licked their wounds and have managed to find a way to carry on. Their second attempt to reproduce a flower and consequently their seed is weaker but a valiant attempt to continue living is taking place right now.

My love of sunflowers started long before the war in Ukraine. In 2019, I filled two old boats with Russian Giants and a few smaller varieties. It was an experiment that succeeded in some ways and failed in others. The boats were like massive plant pots as I saw it and I could net them and stop the deer from eating them (or so I thought). With Mick's help we erected framing and deer netting around and over these boatloads of sunflowers until the Russian Giants were trying to poke through the top of our elaborate cocoon, so at that stage, we removed the netting and let nature take its course.

We did lose about 40% of the crop, but the density of my planting was more than the deer could eat or reach in most cases. I lost another 10-15 % to a big wind storm that blew through just as they were reaching their peak bloom. I had staked most of them but the wind was such that even the stakes failed on some. In addition to the deer and wind, they were thirsty. During heat waves, I had to water them twice daily and if they didn't get hydrated, they complained - their droopy leaves gasping for a drink. Still, I coddled and nurtured them and the bees adored them and every day I would awake to find yet another big floppy yellow head opening up to greet me. It was a true labour of love.

I knew by the end of that summer, it would be the last time I would plant sunflowers in the boats. The following summer, I tried my luck with tomatoes and basil, and again, the results were hit and miss. The paltry yield of tomatoes was hardly worth the effort and as much as I love the wildlife here at Kyeema North, it is not my intention to feed deer and chipmunks perfectly good tomatoes.

The idea with the boats was twofold. I would be able to keep groundhogs out and I would not have to bend to the ground to tend my crops, much like raised beds with a nautical twist.  As valid as these ideas are, it has not worked out as well as I had hoped. The space is limited for starters. They look OK sitting in the yard - after all, we are on a lake and the theme is appropriate, but with frames and netting around them, they have become a bit of an eyesore. This year I decided I would plant nothing but deer resistant flowers and herbs thinking I could do away with the ugly netting. Nope. Turns out the deer, if hungry enough will eat the flower buds off Zinnias (a flower they usually turn their nose up at), and so the morning I caught that buck heading toward one boat after having munched on the other, I knew it was time to get the netting out again and try to rescue the remaining intact Zinnias and Castor Beans. The Castor Beans were to be the tall splashy feature in the middle of each vessel, like a sailing mast surrounded by colourful blooms and a few herbs.

The boats flank the driveway as you approach the house, so symmetry is important and I try to match the plantings in each boat to create a grand floral entrance, like one would adorn the front door of their stately mansion with tastefully designed urns. The sunflowers in 2019 almost worked as I had hoped, but the Tomato/Basil combo in 2020 looked more like someone had abandoned ships in my front drive and weeds had invaded, and this year, (we missed 2021) I now have one full ship wearing fishnets  and one  wooden dory full of chewed off Zinnias and a Castor been stock with all the leaves missing - the only thing that matches is the netting. It looks like there was a mutiny.

To make matters worse, I added a third boat - to hell with symmetry I reckoned...asymmetry is more eclectic anyway. (Always groupings of three darling!) The third boat would not even attempt to match the other two. And, let me assure you, it doesn't. It is currently wearing the same fish nets, but boasts the additional feature we fondly refer to as Scary Mary. (a Scarecrow masthead) Truth is, I think the only things afraid of her are  the bars of  Irish Spring ("Manly, yes, but I like it too!") scattered throughout the plantings considering how filthy she looks. You get that I suppose when the only time you shower is when it rains.. I must make a note to find her a new shirt next season, her Polo logo is completely faded by the sun. In case you are wondering, I have been told the stinky Irish Spring is offensive to the deer. I quickly bought a bulk box of the foul smelling, green bars from Costco when I heard that sage advice. It does tend to break down over time once it has been rained on so if the Sweet 100 Cherry Tomatoes I gift you later this summer, taste a bit soapy - well, My Bad.

We are now starting to plan some sort of alternative garden beds for next year. It may mean we have to sell the "fleet". Anyone interested in 3 boats with holes drilled in the bottom? Besides, with the price of groceries these days, we are going to need to cultivate this empty acre next to the house to grow our own food and avoid bankruptcy.

Either that or buy a bigger boat.

#gardening #kyeemanorth

Let me begin by saying, I picked this beet out of my own veggie patch. I am 64 and this is the first beet I have ever grown. For some reason, beets just never made the cut when it came time to choose what I would grow each season.  It would not have happened this year either but for the fact that the company I ordered my seeds from threw in a free packet of seeds that just happened to be this variety called Vulture Beets. I had never heard of them. An odd name, no?

I had them, so I planted a few and lo and behold they grew and so far the deer have seemed uninterested in them. Unsure if they were ready to harvest, I could tell by the bit that was just above the surface that they might be, so I hauled this beauty out of the ground  with a little tug and was still unsure if this is as big as they get or if I was a little too early. One thing I do know for sure is that I was proud of what I had grown. I held it up to examine it, shook off the clinging dirt and shouted out to Mick..."Check out this little beauty!". It was perfect. No bug bites, check, nice colour,  check, a heady earthy aroma, check. This baby was heading to our dinner plate.

Gardening is truly one of life's great joys (IMHO). My grandparents grew their own food, my parents always had a veggie patch and I followed suit from an early age as soon as I had a window sill to call my own. I once installed shelves horizontally across a rental apartment kitchen window and grew several varieties of herbs to use in my cooking. I thought it was genius and the decorator in me liked the way it looked as well.

Hoping to pass my love of growing things along to my son, I used to take him on little educational walks through my yard and garden at a young age and teach him the names of various flowers and plants. With each successive stroll through, I would quiz him to see if he could remember them. He resisted these lessons, but I was determined he should be able to identify at least some of the flora that surrounds us. He does not remember how he used to wander into our small veggie garden in Vancouver when he was barely two years old, pick pea pods, bring them to me, demand me to "open Mommy" and then grin from ear to ear as the little row of peas inside were revealed. I wish he did remember this. But even more so, I wish that every child had an opportunity to connect with  nature in this way.

I still quiz him...just to see if he remembers. Just last weekend when he was visiting, we walked around here at Kyeema North and despite the fact that he does not seem much interested in gardening (yet), he knew the difference between a Snapdragon and a Marigold. He even asked me if there were any Forget-Me-Nots growing here as those were always a favourite of his as a child, but alas, it was too late in the season for those and I don't have any here. (note to self, add those to  next years seed order).

In a perfect world, I would want every child to embrace growing things. Sometimes, when I witness young people obsessing over meaningless pursuits or complaining they are bored or wasting countless hours scrolling on their phones, I want to shout "Go get your hands dirty! Plant something! Stick a seed in the ground! Create a living thing! Marvel at the miracle of it all!" I have never met a gardener who was bored or boring. I have never felt that gardening was a waste of time. I have never stopped learning about all things botanical. If food became scarce, I would not be fearful.

Listen up young people. You may not realize it, but knowing how to grow something is really a basic life skill and the rewards are far beyond your latest Candy Crush score. If you have a window sill, you can grow something. Just as anyone can cook if they can read, so can anyone create life from a seed in a little pot of dirt in their window. Caring for a plant gives you something outside of yourself to nurture. I recall learning how to grow things from seeds in primary school (the avocado seed experiment). Do they even teach this anymore?

As the world turns and we continue to see more supply chain issues and food prices increasing, we all need to rethink our approach to feeding ourselves. Let's get growing. Let's start with our own children and grandchildren. Teach them how to be self-sufficient. Encourage them to get their hands dirty. Give them the gift of pride in their accomplishment when they pick and eat a juicy ripe strawberry they grew themselves. Take them to a 'pick your own" farm.  Involve them in a community garden.

With any luck, they might enjoy it and come to realize that spending some time in a garden will actually help them understand how the beet does indeed go on.

#gardening #nature