“A little garden in which to walk, and immensity in which to dream.”

– Victor Hugo

I talk to plants.  There, I’ve said it right out loud.  July is one of my favorite months, because it begins the motion toward the Great Tomato Avalanche.  I’m not sure which I like better — growing tomatoes or eating them — but as the day of sun-warmed, juicy, red slabs of tomato between two slices of bread draws close, my thoughts certainly turn toward the eating part.  We have loved the peas of early summer and already are enjoying the moist, tasty cucumbers that grow up the trellis in the back corner of the garden.  Plentiful yellow squash have become a staple of our summertime diet.  But there is something succulent and memorable about that first tomato sandwich that has my mouth watering in anticipation.

I have my eye on this fellow; and since the picture was taken four days ago, the blush of white around his center has begun to take on a pink-orange  glow.  I will chat with him again today about feeling free to let his cheeks grow red — no embarrassment in being a tomato.

The tiny Sungolds have begun to offer several tastes of heaven each day, and soon they will be ripening by the hundreds.  There is nothing quite like the experience of savoring that first golden orb of delight and then thinking of the sweet days ahead.  Many people I’ve met think that gardening begins when the first tomato is picked.  Others would argue that the drudgery of gardening begins long before that day; and they prefer to acquire summer produce at the roadside stand.  For me, gardening is a spiritual journey.

I would have to think back many years to pinpoint a time when I began this journey, because it is more than just a season long.  I vaguely remember the first year we turned over the light brown clay in our backyard and removed rocks, shells from long-ago clambakes, and shards of broken pottery, as we raked and sifted and tried to make the soil a welcome place for our plants to take root.  Our garden that year was less productive, and it began a cycle of mulching and tilling and offering compost that now has loosened the clay and turned the soil a deep, dark brown.  Each Fall, we fill the fenced plot with inches of fallen leaves and let them lie as a blanket between the soil and the winter snow.  Each Spring, we till the leaves into the soil, allowing their decay to restore the earth that once was their beginning.  There is a lot to be learned about endings and beginnings when one becomes responsible for a garden.

When the frost as passed and the soil is tilled, we add the seeds and plants that will become the abundance of July, and the anticipation begins.  Each day I find my way to my little garden and step inside the fence.  I caress the delicate leaves and encourage the tiny seedlings to use the sun and water and soil to reach their full potential and fulfill their mission of producing wonderful food.  I want them to feel my love and gratitude and anticipation long before I pick that first ripe tomato.  I want to be right there with them so I will know when they need a little grass for mulch or a stake to keep their vines from trailing and rotting on the ground.  I want to watch the dance between their blossoms and the bees as the mystery of pollination causes their fruit to set.

It is when I stand in the early-morning silence of the garden that I best understand the immensity of the universe and the miraculous way that so many forces come together to ensure the growth of a single tomato.  When my hands are in the earth and my heart swells with gratitude, my spirit soars into the vastness and I learn that I am just like the plants I tend — a small piece of the great expanse that, like every other small piece, is worthy of all the magic Creation has to offer.

There is something much greater than vegetables at work when we plant a little garden in which to walk and discover an immensity in which to dream.