A Winter of Contemplation

The Artist's Garden at Vetheuil - Monet

At the end of a season of gardening, the gardener welcomes rest. We take on the characteristics of drifting into hibernation. We ebb and flow with the ups and downs of nature, taking her cues in order to guide us towards the process of our own rejuvenation and reflection. In the spring we are full of energy and excitement, chomping at the bit to get our hands dirty and breathe soil. The first weeks of clearing away the old to make room for the promise of the new are cathartic. Our bodies and spirits once again fill with wonder and vibrancy. Once the initial frenzy clears, we then settle into the sensation of satisfaction as we nurture and shape our relationships with the plants for which we care. A slight lull mid-summer offers us opportunity to fine-tune borders and to determine fall projects. By September our energy wanes with the fading of the flowers. The season is connected to our souls and the fatigue of growing emanates through our pores. We, too, long for sleep. Our bodies scream "Enough".

This gardening cycle, no matter the setting, is always the same. The level of physical fatigue varies with the intensity with which we engage, but it is expected and we learn to pace ourselves. It's part of the cycle, the exertion of physical energy, but mental exhaustion isn't an expected outcome of working with plants or soil. It's not present when we work alone in a garden. It's something I equate to corporations and team settings where personalities rub. It doesn't belong amongst the flowers. It upsets the natural cycle.

I remember a discussion I had with a former client when I first started my own gardening business. He said "some people are meant to work by themselves; maybe you're (me) like that?" I hadn't ever really thought of it that way. Before I finally made a decision on the change I needed to make to my life, I only knew that I had to get away from where I was. I had cycled through more than 30 years  of starting a new form of the same job, the excitement of it only to quickly fade. Apparently I was missing the memo. It's interesting how life teaches us what we need the most, a learning process we rarely see coming. I do know this; lessons are patient, they wait for you, and they repeat until you finally clue in.

But I thought maybe he was right. I was happy in my own business. I had found that for which I had looked for so long;  flexibility, change, movement, nature, inspiration, motivation, a sense of control in my life, a  means of doing something for people who appreciated it...solitude. I needed to nurture joy, peace and well-being, not antipathy, discontentment and regret. I needed to clear the mental fog that was taking over my life.  Gardening did that. Immersing myself in plants and horticultural studies  fed my self-confidence and nourished  my passion. But then the questions, the voices of doubt, whispered "Is there something more?", "Will I get tired of gardening?" The universe responded by aligning itself to send me eastward. I thought that if I didn't listen to my heart, regret would fester and eat away at the personal progress I had made over the years to bring me to this point in my journey. It was now or never and I had to find out.

The gardener's cycle continued; I rested over the winter, anticipated the spring, and felt the pull to the earth as plants  towards the sun with a renewed energy and enthusiasm. The closing of the season brought with it the familiar craving for respite and the mixed feelings of not wanting to feel winter's cold grip, yet longing for its blanket of comfort . I loved my time in New Brunswick. But under the familiar vice of micro-management grew the nagging familiarity of  low morale and mental fatigue. How could anyone be unhappy in a garden? Yet rather than accepting this as a sign that it might not be my future, I ignored it and looked forward to a second season. The lesson silently and patiently waited.

Winter arrived. I plunged once again into learning all things horticultural exercising my mind and feeding my soul in anticipation of spring. The weeks were filled further with plans for my return to the east. But again, the universe had a different plan for me. Instead I found myself weighing the options of restarting my own business on the fly or taking a step in yet another horticultural direction with a landscape company. The  latter appeared as an intriguing dangling carrot. At the time I wasn't sure I wished to return to my former business, so I pursued the carrot. I positioned myself to enthusiastically pick up the trowel and start a new form of the same job...again.  The lesson positioned itself as I circled around.

I felt excited, aligned, and highly motivated heading into the new job. The vibrations of spring pulsed in my veins. The cycle began again. But early on I warily felt the slippery slope to discontentment forming. I suspected strongly it wasn't going to be the position for me. However, when I start something, I finish it, at least to the end of the season. I did my best to adapt and accept. How can anyone be unhappy in a garden? Where had I heard that before?? The physical aspect of a gardener's job is simply a reality and it's the exercise I love. I can handle that. What I had not expected was the extent of mental exhaustion  I encountered and the familiar pangs of micro-management and low morale I associated with past situations. I recognized shadows of a former frustrated, uninspired and stagnant self; a person I had worked so hard to leave behind.  I felt my passion being drained. I  was more than that for which I was being given credit. Lesson delivered, accepted  and understood.

​We all have expectations. We all develop these expectations based on perceptions; our own and those presented by others. When our expectations aren't met, they lead to making decisions and learning lessons. Sometimes those lessons have to beat us over the head a few times before we become cognizant of the message we're supposed to be receiving. The teacher is patient and the lesson will repeat until we get it. Life's funny like that. 

The latest gardening season came to a close, as it always does, but later than I was truly ready for.  My mental capacity for energy was gone. I needed to step away and decompress. I didn't like how I felt. I had a choice to make, but I needed quiet time to sort it out in my mind and be confident in my reasoning. I needed to busy my hands and mind with things for which no time had been left by my rigorous schedule. I did not feel the comfortable release into hibernation.  It was not the easy transition of a gardener who is satisfied with her season of tending plants, connecting with people and making a difference in someone's life. I needed to be true to myself, to my values, and  make the best decision for my own happiness and sense of peace.

It has been a winter of contemplation. I've spent two years searching for something more, not knowing what that was supposed to be, only to cycle back around like the cycling of the seasons, the cycle of renewal from winter to spring, and the inherent cycle of the gardener, in order to learn that what I had was what I needed and the only way I was going to learn that was by placing myself in other situations so that I could solidify that for which I already knew in my heart.

This gardener can finally sit back and feel the protective blanket of snow all around me. Hibernation is now palpable. I am again excited for the spring and for new 'old' beginnings as my list of gardening clients grows. There is a peacefulness in my mind and a assuredness in my heart. There is a feeling of purpose once again lifting my spirit and the return of a lightness in my mood. The days are getting longer. Seeds are nestled into trays in my mini greenhouses and cuttings into pots. Before long I will be sharpening tools and getting ready to be back where I belong and making a difference in other peoples' lives...and I can't wait. The lesson?  Sometimes what we think will make us happier, doesn't, and what we need, is right in front of us. It's important to have the courage to figure that out.
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