Gardening and the Cycles of Life - How Earth Work Teaches Us About Life and Death

Not many people outside my immediate circle are aware of this, but I'm an avid gardner. 

I'm fortunate enough that I can raise a significant amount of my own food, and over the years I've learned to prepare it for putting by through various means.   It has kept me and my daugther healthy, and in times of economic hardship it has provided for us.  There have been times in my life when I have relied solely upon the earth's harvest to provide my meals, and during those lean times I was grateful that I knew how to work with the earth's ecology to survive. 

During my time of learning the earth's cycles through planting and harvesting, I have come to realize that gardening provides us with a microcosmic lesson in the cycles of birth and death.     At first glance, gardening as an occupation may seem to be more about birth than death, because it effectively produces a harvest that beautifies, feeds, or nourishes.    And this is true. 

But these harvests die.  The blooms fade, the flowers wither and return to the ground from which they sprouted.  If they are perennial, they return again the following year.  If they are an annual crop, their death is final, and they will need to be replanted again by the gardner if they are to return in future years.  These plants, and the act of sewing and growing them, carry messages for us:  they show us that life - the nature of living - is a cycle. It is not a static event.  It carries with it the potential for future incarnations, but the care and cultivation of that is up to us. 

We're nearing the deep midwinter now where I live.   Harvests are a challenge during this time, as snow blankets the ground and temperatures on some days only reach 20 degrees F (-7 or so C).   Very few plants will grow during this time; certain varieties of kale for instance. And even these types of plants slow their growth significantly during this cold time, and should likely be protected in some way to maximize their output.     For all intents and purposes, the ground is cold, hard and lifeless - little will grow.  The trees are bare, skeletal things: their slender branches shaken easily by the cold winter winds.  Even the deer, who once so regularly visited my apples trees to steal its bounty, are less plentiful now - they, too, are hiding in woodland shelters to protect themselves from the bitter cold.   The pale, colorless landscape recalls to mind the mourning of those who have departed - how we miss their touch, their presence, their laughter.  Will we ever see them again?  

The wintering gardens demonstrate one installment in the earth's cycles of birth and death.

Of course we will. Just like the icy ground will give way to rich soil that nurtures and sustains the apple trees, where the deer will come once again to eat.  Just like the calendula flowers will bloom so deeply orange and beautiful when they are ready for their harvest.   Just like the new beets will emerge from their freshly planted seeds in spring.  All of these will return again.   

These cycles tell us - promise us, even - that life will return again.  And we will see our loves again - just as we see the new blossoms every spring, just as we eat the new harvests every autumn.   The earth nutures its cycles, and nutures us, and as we are subject to its dying, we are also subject to its rebirth.  

I hope we can remember that during our moments of grief.