This spring, I can’t imagine the transition will feel quite as striking, but I’m sure the return of greenery will still speak to something within me. The courtyard gardens outside my apartment will slowly unfurl once again before filling out in a sudden rush once the weather permits.
Growing up, I wasn’t much of a gardener, but my mom is quite adept when it comes to planting and cultivating beds and pots. Every April was heralded by the smell of cocoa bean mulch and fertilizer. My brother and I were deputized weed wranglers for a weekend or two, but it was my mom who kept the garden going into the late summer. Reading Renée Stewart-Hester’s article about local master gardeners brought me back to my roots, as it were. It also helped me see something I hadn’t noticed. Although I don’t take to any flower beds armed with a shovel and a kneeling pad, I’ve replicated my mom’s green thumb through the riot of houseplants I’ve accumulated. I might be more of a gardener than I thought. And who knows?
