my own damm garden
I planted these seeds in March of 2021. A few weeks after moving into the first place I’ve ever been able to call a home all to myself. I moved in with one piece of furniture, not even a bed. I spent the first two weeks sleeping on the floor and begging my landlord to get me the stove I was promised. A month later, I had a bed, a stove, and the temporary feeling of home.
I sat inside on my floor and thoughtfully and meticulously planted seed after seed of what I imagined would be the first of many abundant herbs and veggies of the garden I would build for my first home. A home that I meticulously and thoughtfully manifested repeatedly asking for light and place that could facilitate growth.
As for my garden, I involved my partner and my therapist and anyone who would listen and together whether they knew it or not we all nurtured life into these little, meticulously planted seeds. I had so much hope in my fingertips in these seeds. I decided I wanted these seeds to be a metaphor for my next chapter. My first chapter in many ways.
They sprouted and germinated and reached for the sun, their roots quickly out grew their little peat moss pellets and I moved them and re planted then and gave them the warmth and water they wanted. And as is the case with so much in life, along the way some didn’t make it.
My partner and I researched garden beds and measured every square inch of the porch and figured out the most optimal place to house my little plant babies. He found lumber and put the same meticulous intention behind that build as I did with the seeds. And a few days later in my own little corner of my own little Brooklyn backyard was a custom garden bed.
He hauled over 700 pounds of soil and mulch and cedar from Long Island up two flights of stairs to that same little corner and we started to sow. Within one afternoon all of my babies had a beautiful new home, a home built with love, built for growth.
In the time that I have planted those seeds and harvested it’s first fruits, I’ve made my little corner of the world a home, I reconnected with my father after nearly 4 years. Learned new painting techniques and the power of a good accent wall. I lost my grandfather to suicide, I now own a car because of him and race to park it close enough to where I can see the Basil from his front seat. I watched my baby brother marry the love of his life, I’ve lifted an entire couch up a two story building by myself. Said goodbye to my older brother as he relocated his family to Florida — to build his own garden. I learned the importance of a having a rack inside a chimenia and why you should never leave it on a wooden porch. I met my best friend’s first born son after many months in quarantine, and Monique, the cross guard on my corner who says “good morning, have a good day” to every passerby from the hours of 7-10am. I hung selves and blinds and got very comfortable with power tools. I somehow mustered up courage to give my grandfather’s eulogy. I got so angry with my partner I thought I might leave him and instead for the first time in my life spent the time to work through that moment together and I found myself in a resilient partnership, one with more security and love than I’ve ever known. I’ve prayed to every new, half, and full moon right here in my little corner of the world. I discovered that my grandmother was an astrologer and so I feel her during each of those prayers now. I had to rip a kale plant given to me from my downstairs neighbors out of my garden bed because of a nasty case of aphids. I was there for my partner in the aftermath of his father had a massive heart attack, and my friend Whitney after her mother’s stroke. I learned what aphids are. I also learned that my landlord is a known criminal and the guy who lived here before me, a writer on SNL. And last week we laid in my bed drunk off too many old fashioneds and a good night with friends and we talked about marriage. What would marriage feel like.
I’m not entirely sure what it was about my childhood that made me feel like if I were to ever feel at home, it wouldn’t last long and it would be such a temporary fleeting moment it might be best to avoid creating it at all.
I avoided creating something for so much of my life. Something that resembled home. Aphids might come, I might want to leave, I might lose a father figure that I’ve loved my whole life by his own hands, I might have to put in the effort to get the results. Or what’s worse, it might bloom.