My mom is a gardener through and through. She coaxes blooms from bare stems and revives the drooping and forgotten with a few muttered words and a splash of water. Whatever weight the day lays on her shoulders — fatigue, frustration, the quiet ache of repetition — it all slips away the moment she steps into our backyard. Five minutes among her plants and her spirit lifts as if it is photosynthesizing with the leaves around her.
Her garden is more than a pastime. It is her refuge, her craft, her third child. She built it from nothing — from a mound of dead leaves and an unruly patch of earth in our backyard. With her own two hands, she turned decay into beauty. Now it overflows with life thanks to the weight of her dedication. Sunflowers stretch toward the sky, hydrangeas turn towards the light, tomatoes ripen on the vine, lettuce unfurls, peppers are bright with promise. Every spare moment she has, she gives to her plants. I call her every day, and every day our conversations inevitably turn to the garden. She’ll tilt her phone toward a new bloom, her voice bursting with pride, or she will pan slowly across a row of seedlings like she’s introducing me to new friends.
It’s in those moments, watching her cradle her garden with words, that I understand just how much it gives her. A sense of purpose. A quiet structure to her days. A way to measure care in growth rather than productivity. Her garden is a living ledger of love and labor, of patience and renewal. When something blooms, she knows, undeniably, that her presence made it possible.
Lately, I’ve been wondering whether I have anything like that.
I don’t think I’ve made space for that unwavering sense of purpose. I haven’t invited stillness into my life. The pace of being here, at Dartmouth, in college, in this particular moment in the world, makes it easy to stay in motion. To anchor one’s worth to how much gets done, how efficiently, how publicly. I move from one obligation to the next, often too preoccupied or exhausted to consider what I might actually want when the work ends. What calls to me when no one is asking for anything?
I don’t know yet. I’ve been too busy to ask the question, too tired to hear the answer. But I’m starting to feel like it is important to pay more attention. I want to know what I would tend to, if I let myself be still long enough to act.
They say April showers bring May flowers. That the gray sodden days, the ones where everything feels heavy and slow, are not wasted. That beneath the surface, something is germinating, quietly, stubbornly. I’m trying to believe that’s true. That this season of uncertainty is part of the process. That growth takes time.
This week in Mirror, we explore the promise of everyday life. One writer examines different religious traditions while sitting in on REL 1.13, “Sacred Movement.” Another writer reflects on the universality of the college experience. And finally, two writers put pen to paper to address summer flings and rekindling romance.
April showers bring May flowers. With them, I hope, the beginning of my own garden will come. I hope you find your garden, reader. I hope May has beautiful blooms in store for you.
