Gardening is for optimists. Several times a week someone mentions the seedlings they have planted, or the raised bed they are digging in, or the tiny sprouts pushing through the dirt.
Several years back was the pinnacle of my history as a gardener. My mentor was the brains, and all I had to do was follow his instructions. He provided the seeds, the knowledge, and the game plan. I came home bearing baskets bursting with carrots, ripe tomatoes, corn still in the husk, pumpkins, onions, lettuce, and green peppers. It was astonishing.
One time I asked him about the potatoes. Months has passed since we planted them and there was no hint of readiness.
"Wait a bit longer," he said.
The bounty did not happen without effort. I got so filthy after ninety minutes in the garden I left evidence on the seat driving home. And it was only a mile. My fingernails were black and my forehead was sweaty.
I loved it.
Some days the plan would be to stop by for twenty minutes, enough to keep up with the weeds and pick a mix for lunch. But time would slip away and I would realize an hour had passed.
Some of my relationships seem to have more going on beneath the surface than above. I staunchly believe there are roots of good will, yet the soft words that make it to open air are sparse. The toil of showing up without judgment is wearing. Couldn't there be evidence of sweet progress?
"Wait a bit longer," says the voice inside my head.
