I was sitting in my therapist’s office, telling her how much I enjoyed gardening, when she said, “Gardening seems like a spiritual practice for you.” I stopped talking and looked at her in silence as tears started to well up in my eyes.
“What’s behind those tears?” She asked.
I paused for a while, not knowing what to say, not understanding why I was crying, trying to feel for the truth that was embedded in the present moment. “I think that you calling it a spiritual practice really made me realize how important it is to me.”
Even though I’ve owned several large gardens in my life, now I have only the tiny balcony of our rented apartment. Yet in this tiny space, a space that receives sunshine only in the afternoon, I have managed to create a deeply satisfying and verdant oasis.
Each morning, after writing, I carefully water all the plants, check their health, and rearrange and prune them. Every time I visit our balcony, I notice and enjoy the ways it has changed: the tomato plant has more fruit; the morning glory vine is trying to climb up the stucco wall; the nasturtiums have produced more seeds.
On a long pole, we hang a mesh sock filled with nyjer seeds. This sock attracts dozens of gold finches and house finches, birds that scatter as a flock across the inner courtyard…
