The Garden

[HAP]

Dear Friends,

If one can tell the state of a man's mind and marriage, as one of the characters in Amy Tan's Joy Luck Club insists, my garden has told a very sad story over the last five-and-a-half years.

In October of 2009, Jane came down with the H1N1 flu. Normally, October and November were button-down months for us. We would pull out the dead annuals, divide those perennials that preferred fall separations, mulch the shrubs, clear the detritus from the vegetable garden, spread compost to let it work it's way into the soil over the winter.

The flu hit Jane hard. It put her flat on her back for several days. Just as she began to recover, pneumonia sent her back to bed. On Halloween, she watched the trick-or-treaters from the window. I would not let her near the open door, afraid some chill would put her back to bed.

My attention was riveted on her. I managed to mow the lawn periodically, but the rest of the yard work was beyond both of us. We left everything for spring.

Jane stayed weak all winter, but did the spring pruning. She got up on the stepladder and cut back the Rose-of-Sharon that was--and is--the centerpiece of one bed. Normally, that was a fall project. I coaxed the vegetable garden back to life, but we bought most of the plants that year. Usually, we started the vegetables from seed so we could be certain what they were and that no one had treated them with pesticides.

We both knew something wasn't right. She tired easily. Every day, her ankles were swollen. She told me later there were times the world seemed to fade around her--that when people spoke, sometimes they seemed to be very far away. She kept that from everyone. She said she had promises to keep to her students.

The garden suffered that summer. Jane's legs were so bad she had to give up her two hours of tennis every day. Normally, I would walk for an hour while she played, then come home and weed and do the other things it takes to make a garden grow. Instead, we tried to walk together every day. When we came home, we would read and talk. The garden didn't matter much that summer. I neglected the weeds, the rabbits and the groundhogs.

My focus was elsewhere. I was terrified--terrified that I was losing her. I think she was terrified, too. But we hid that terror from each other. She was probably better at it than I was. I wear every emotion, unguarded, on my face.

I did the bare and necessary minimums in the yard that fall. Walking across the lawn one Saturday afternoon my foot disappeared into a sudden sink hole nearly to the knee. It was the only time that Jane was sick that I let my anger out. The air got an earful. All the anger I felt about the cruelty of what was going on with her spewed out in a handful of words before I got control.

Jane died just over a month later. The hole in the ground stayed marked, but unrepaired, until spring. I am still working on dealing with it.

I've made abortive efforts in my garden every year since. The first spring, I pruned the Rose-of-Sharon. I found a hummingbird nest in it and started off the ladder to tell Jane. The realization she was not there shattered me. I went through the motions of putting some plants in the ground, but my heart was in none of it.

Nearly two years ago, I started putting a fence around the garden to keep the groundhogs out. Last year, I managed to prune the plants in two of the foundation beds and plant two small trees. I kept starting landscaping projects, but never seemed to finish any of them. Every inch of every bed looked like ground under repair.

They were a perfect reflection of my life, my mind, my heart, and my soul. Their unfinished state is a perfect metaphor for every other aspect of my existence.

A friend once said, there are two kinds of people in the world: those who want to die with everything done and those who want to die with a thousand things still to do. There are times I feel I must fall into the latter category: I have a foundation to fight Jane's cancer that always has at least three new projects hanging fire--and whose government paperwork seems endless; I have the beginnings of two novels, a book on journalism, a book on mourning all started and in various stages of completion; I have three landscaping projects in progress and plans for another three in mind; and then there are rooms to paint, carpet to replace, and a basement to clean out and rework into the office Walking with Jane really needs.

There are times, even now, I am overwhelmed by all of it. But somewhere in April, something changed. Part of it was the 52-month rebirth ceremony I celebrated alone in the rain at Jane's grave. I felt they way people say you are supposed to feel after the funeral--but never do if you are the spouse or the children. The weight lifted and I could see the world of possibility again.

But part of it was also finally getting into the garden as something more than a chore. I started April determined to get all the beds truly cleaned out for the first time since the fall of 2009, determined to finish the groundhog defense system, determined to finish the enlarged bed around the mailbox with the perennials I spent the winter raising from seed. Each day, I made--and saw--visible progress.

In mid-April, I realized I was no longer thinking about the gardens--I was seeing them as they would be; I was sleeping the night through and no longer awakening from strange and troubling dreams; and the lists I made of things I wanted to do had fewer and fewer tasks unfinished at each day's end.

I still have awful days. Sunday marked 53 months since Jane's death and I got lost in her grave for quite a while that day. I built her a planter of white geraniums, white impatiens, and purple petunias--that last a gesture to her mother who is buried beneath the same headstone.

When I came home, I did some housekeeping and moved some furniture around. But this time I was not trying to forget my pain in those things. An engineer was coming Monday afternoon to look at the house for solar power. He needed to be able to get to the attic and be able to see some things that are tucked behind the furniture.

Finally, I am seeing glimpses of the longer future and there are things I need to do to prepare for it. For both of us, it was important to live our values and beliefs. Our gardens were a symbol of those things--as those solar panels on the roof will be.

Our gardens did not just feed the body, they fed our souls. I forgot that somewhere in the last few years. Neglecting them was evidence of how badly injured my soul was when Jane died. They've tried to nourish me despite how badly I've neglected them. And now that I am truly paying attention again, the dividends are greater than I could have imagined.

The ground is still under repair--both in the garden and in my life. Truth be told, they always were--and they always will be.

But if a garden is truly the image of a man's soul, then mine seems to be in healing and growing mode: the stone paths in the vegetable garden are nearly finished; the peas and onions and radishes are out of the ground, the tomato transplants are doing well and the eggplant is ready to move from the cold-frame to the garden; the daylily transplants have taken hold, as have the coneflowers and alyssum; last year's hydrangea and lilies have sprouted; the azaleas are in bloom and the peonies have formed their flower buds.

For the first time in years, my heart feels light--and the possibilities are endless.

Peace,

Harry

[MartyT]

Oh dear Harry, this post is ringing with hope and inspiration. Glorious. Thank you for sharing your thoughts with all of us ~ so perfectly stated, as always. Truly, in the garden that is life, you are one of its most beautiful flowers, and we are so grateful that you are here with us. ♥

[HAP]

Nah. I'm just an onion in the petunia patch--or maybe a garlic bulb in the petunia patch.

--H.

[ailee]

Beautifully stated, touched apart of my soul that once found happiness with the

same ambitions of spring. I still love and miss it all, I just don't want it

anymore. Life is still very empty, unfair, and devoid of meaning. I have no desireto be happy.

But...it totally warms my heart that you are finding some joy again, such a wonderful tribute to the life you lived with Jane. So Feel the sun and the rain and watch the flowers grow into something beautiful, it's a good thing.

[enna]

Hope and healing are what I read in your post, Harry. Thank you for such a POSITIVE today.

Anne

[Guest]

I'm invading the spousal thread, but I wanted to chime in about the gardening. Your prose makes me want peace Harry. Thank you.

I usually garden year round, as I live in Central Texas, but since our son's passing in January I didn't pull one weed. I usually start seeds and stir up the composter in February, but I didn't. I usually mulch and plant in march and April, but I didn't. Then finally about 2 weeks ago i headed outside and pulled, and mulched, and dug, and planted vegetables for hours and hours. I cried so much without my helper that I thought that I wouldn't even need to water that garden. Then I went out front and planted and moved bulbs and flowers. Then I added elephant ears around the pool until dark. It was exhausting. I cried, I prayed, I cussed, and I cried some more. But I knew that if I had to spend the rest of this year wishing I would have just found the strength to do it, I'd be so sad all year long. I knew that every neighbor or visitor that saw it all in the unkempt condition that it was in before would assume that I lost my mind after losing my Matthew. I knew that mom was spiritually telling me to get my hands dirty because the day would pass by if I was in bed or in the dirt. Either way the sun will rise and fall, so you might as well get it done. I knew that if I didn't can peppers and okra this fall that every single gumbo would remind me that I didn't do it. I know that early next spring would come without tulips and that would be such a mistake. So I did it and will do some more when the rains slow down next week. I may have to push myself out of the door and cry all over succulents and squash alike, but I will. I know that I can't control many things, but this I can somewhat. Even if the aphids come to steal it away or the deer decide to go beyond the rose bushes, I'll have tried. I always knew there'd come a day when I'd have to garden without his help. I just thought I'd have 4 or 5 more years to get ready.

[MartyT]

((( ♥ )))

[kayc]

George was the gardener, I'm afraid I'm a killer. He would know how needed he was if he could look at what's happened here...I long ago gave up. Maybe someday I'll try again.

[HAP]

Dear friends,

Thank you all for your kind words.

I was reminded again last night of how important a single act of kindness can be--and how important saying thank you is. I was at UMass-Boston--my alma mater--last night for the annual celebration of scholarships the university does each year. The chancellor said he rarely heard the words thank you before he arrived on our campus nearly 15 years ago. He had handed a student a check for a $250 scholarship--something he thought of as nothing. The young woman thanked him with tears streaming down her face--as though he had handed her a million dollars.

Those of us in the audience who were graduates understood her thanks and her tears. UMB is not a school filled with rich students--and never has been. When I graduated, the average entering student was 28 years old with a spouse, two children and a 40 hour a week job. The only differences between now and then are the costs have gone up and the average entering student is 25. For us, every dollar made a difference--and to today's students, every dollar still does. That $250 meant everything to that young woman. It likely meant she could buy some used textbooks rather than sit in the library to read them on reserve. And that meant time at home with her husband and children. The smallest kindness means everything when you have nothing.

Those of you newly widowed know that feeling of having nothing. It is not just a financial emptiness but a spiritual and emotional emptiness as well. I still, 53 months into this journey, find myself reaching for my wife in the middle of the night; I still leave kisses and flowers at her grave every week--and every month. Someone hugged me last week--the first physical hug I've had in months--and I felt like someone had handed me the greatest gift I could receive. I will live on the memory of that hug for weeks. It was like that student getting that $250 check.

I was literally a pauper as an undergraduate. I lived on ketchup soup and was too often too close to being homeless to think for one moment that the homeless and the hungry are substantially different from the rest of us. And today I know how close everyone I know is to being a widow or a widower. We are reduced in the moment of our spouse's death to a spiritual and emotional poverty every bit as grinding as physical poverty. And there are few emotional equivalents to that $250 check.

Last night I wrote something every one of my fellow alumni would understand immediately: "Success is not measured in dollars and cents but in the lives you touch and the dreams you create, nurture and sustain." This place is an oasis in the vast desert of grief. It touches the lives of each of us. It is a dream it is up to each of us to nurture and sustain.

Thank you, Marty, for dreaming this dream and making it real.

Peace,

Harry

[feralfae]

Harry,

What a beautiful and eloquent tribute to your alma mater, to the students who strive there, and our own dear Marty. Thank you for sharing your writing with us here,and with the world.

Thank you from me personally for your emotional support, kindness, concern, and openness during my initial shock and dismay about the NETS. My tests are coming back clear, but I will keep having tests every four months (graduated from three months to four!) and living as best as I can to stay healthy.

And your words on gardens sent me out to begin to reclaim more of the flower beds and plants, the fruit trees and cattails that have been terribly neglected since Doug left. Your words are a wonderful inspiration and solace for peace in the future.

namaste,

fae

[enna]

"This place is an oasis in the vast desert of grief. It touches the lives of each of us. It is a dream it is up to each of us to nurture and sustain." Harry

Yes, Harry, what you say is so very true. We all make this sacred place what it is and I for one can say that those who have traveled with me on my grief journey have been a big part of my healing. We all know how each one of us has benefited from Marty's continued support by keeping this discussion forum going. It has been said that each one of us make this group what it is. I wish I could remember the quote about each part equals the whole, but I think everyone knows what I mean.

I hope those who are new here know that there is light later ~ sharing your stories helps you to heal. You will always miss the ones you have lost. Our grief work is to walk into our pain.

Anne

[MartyT]

Thank you, dear Harry, for your beautiful words, which touch me deeply and warm my heart.

And I think the quote you're thinking of goes like this, dear Anne: The whole is greater than the sum of its parts ~ and isn't that the truth when it comes to the precious souls who gather here, in loving support of one another? ♥

[kayc]

So beautifully and aptly put! I had a dream last night that I was ill and Anne was taking care of me (and doing a wonderful job!). This is how this place is, each of us looking after and caring for each other. Yes, I remember that time, dear fae, and was so thankful our own Harry could be there for you with his array of knowledge. You've done a beautiful job of healing yourself, just as Anne is now.

[HAP]

Dear friends,

I promised pictures when the landscaping projects I started way back when were finally finished. I still have some mulching to finish in the back of the house, but here are the projects that were complete as of Saturday afternoon. I still have a number of things I'm working on--even in the back of the house--including a small orchard that likely won't go in before fall or next spring, a walkway from the deck to the vegetable garden and a perennial border on three sides of that garden. The south end of that last piece needs to be mulched, but the plants I've nurtured all winter went in the ground this weekend.

The bed around the mailbox is also done, but is currently bordered by what is left of the five yards of mulch I had brought in to put the finishing touches on things. I'll post pictures of that once the mulch is off the driveway.

Peace,

Harry

[Guest]

Thank you for the pics!! I love that you have a cold frame. Great job!

[kayc]

Very nice, Harry! You've done a beautiful job & I hope you derive much enjoyment from it!