To be sure, it has willingly -- hospitably even -- welcomed without prejudice the transplants that began their journey in the greenhouse and the seeds tucked directly into its folds. It has settled and sustained the perennials -- asparagus and berry bushes -- that need a little longer to mature and then stake out territory for the long term. It has drunk deeply from the patient dripping of the irrigation tapes, and digested the soil amendments I have added to the mix. Like an acquiescent teen at the dentist it has even dutifully endured my row tilling once and in some cases twice each season.
But then I expect all that.
What still surprises me, however, are the volunteers. Two years ago I planted tomatillos in what was then the back corner of the garden. Last year, despite the fact that new tomatillos were planted in the opposite corner of the enclosure, tomatillo plants sprang up as well in their original location. Two or three volunteer bushes. It was, I thought to myself, a bonus. A rogue sunflower sprang up nearby as still another unannounced guest bearing gifts. I credited birds -- even rabbits, perhaps -- contributing their own garden ideas.
But this year, despite two years of subsequent tilling -- or, I suppose, stimulated by it -- the tomatillos have multiplied. Almost as many plants have emerged in that original location as I planted this year in a fresh one. If one sunflower surprised me last year, half a dozen or more -- of multiple heights and colors -- stand sentinel this year over multiple rows. One has even emerged from the dirt pile outside the garden beside the compost pile. The biggest surprise, however, are the cherry tomatoes. Not one plant, but several in multiple locations. That, after autumn's decline, a winter for the record books, and more tilling. Volunteer tomatoes. Bearing fruit.
I am the first to acknowledge how much I have to learn about this growing business, but it still feels magical. Magical, and humbling -- like receiving a gift from a loved one for no particular reason. It returns me to the notion of abundance that was the subject of an earlier scribbling. Grace and abundance gently scolding me for any misbegotten notions of scarcity I may latch onto from time to time. It's certainly true that not every seed I sow bears fruit. For the third year in a row my eggplant aspirations fizzled, along with this year's ground cherry seeds tucked in with my seed catalog order, and numerous fancy flowers, cuttings from which we had visions of showcasing in table vases. It remains to be seen if the broccoli and cauliflower will fare any better this year than last; and leeks were a total bust.
But disappointment is not the same as starvation. In my previous work, I wasn't called to every position for which I interviewed, but the work I was privileged to do in the settings that made a place for me was rich and satisfying and bountiful. Out and about, some of my favorite conversations are with total strangers only circumstantially brought together. And despite my amateurish toilings here in the soil we still have more than we can eat. We have already been freezing greens, and the water in the canning pot scarcely gets a chance these days to cool. If the bean pods offer any foreshadowing, we will be busy shelling and packaging those in a matter of weeks. We are getting creative with ways to use the squashes, and the early treasure trove of tomatoes has already found its way into BLT's and bruschettas and sauces.
And now the winsome intrusion of a few more that I hadn't even planted -- sauces and salsas and sunflower surprises. It is, I suspect, just one small, but reiterated, glimpse of the intrinsic wealth of the world routinely budding, but just as routinely ignored by the arrogance of we who are convinced that good things can only emerge from our own cultivation. At least this once I am unencumbered by the delusion.
And for the humility I am, for this abundant season, serendipitously, gratefully rich.
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