Spring News from the Mother Garden
In the garden at dusk the night has not fully claimed the day and the tree canopies are shadowy forms against an indigo western sky. A waxing crescent moon hangs like a charm on a necklace worn by Gaia, who is everywhere chanting evening prayers in the murmurings of crickets. Bats flit about. An owl calls from the cottonwood grove by the edge of the creek. “Whoo, whoo, whoo.” This is the call my mother and father used to round us kids up when we were in a store, at a game, or in any crowd. My mom would call "whooo whooo whoo-oo" and we would answer back like little owls until we found one another. I call back into the darkening night--just in case it is her--”whoo, whoo, whoo-oo."
Our dear mom, Bonnie, passed into the mystery peacefully on April 7th. You can read her obituary here. She lived a dynamic, creative, full life centered on family and community. Kelly and I were there for her last week on Earth, bathing, feeding and tending to her. The last few times she looked into my eyes she radiated pure love and light. I imagine that as she slept she was glimpsing something of the great beyond. Now I am trying to find my way in the world without her. I find it difficult to write and speak about her in the past tense. Although she was in hospice care for nearly two years and we knew the end was coming, there is nothing quite like the finality of this loss. The emptiness has been filled in part, by a glorious spring (Bonnie's favorite season) and to witness the Earth's renewal.
I am grateful to have the Mother Garden as a place to plant my grief and honor her spirit. Your support is making this possible, and for this I am incredibly grateful. The garden is a space to process and transform our collective grief and to cultivate the mother spirit in ourselves and beyond. I am a bit daunted by the undertaking to create a legacy garden for communal healing. I ask myself each day, “How do I begin?” I hear the robins singing cheerful, insistent songs, growing stronger and more fortified as the mulberries ripen. They implore me to get out of bed, to go out to the garden and their whistling notes help me feel like anything is possible. My mom loved watching robins forage for worms from the screen porch at home early in her illness when she was relegated to a chair—inching between different posts throughout the day with a walker. Now she is here on the farm with the robins every day in their sweet songs.
Mom at her porch perch for robin watching.
I started sketching on paper this winter when even the land felt like a blank slate. We made lists of plants we love—the drought tolerant, pollinator attractors, with pretty flowers for bouquets and medicinal value. Plants like echinacea, catmint, baptisia, caryopteris, yarrow and of course our mom’s favorite, black eyed Susans. There are the atives like Columbine, globe mallow, desert marigold, and grasses, Apache plume; garden favorites like roses, lavender and rosemary and medicinals like valerian, angelica and red clover (the list is lengthy!) Then I made some big plant purchases…
Over the past two months we began mapping the contours of the water flow, we drew beds with meandering paths around existing plants and to accommodate new plants. We designed and planted the medicine wheel garden (previously the corn field) the week after Mothers Day. It is filled with giant sunflowers who volunteered themselves from last year. They have grown tall enough for the lesser goldfinches to perch upon when they forage for insects. At the center, a persimmon tree has grown a first set of velvety leaves, a gift from our friend Kay. Kelly and I planted it just before we left for Vermont in March to see our mother for the last time.
Sketching our design with diatomaceous earth seemed like a good idea until a freak June rainstorm washed it all away a few days later!
This is where I sit as I write this—at the center of this new life. The crowd of sunflowers are nearly at shoulder height, their heads all gazing west with me. I’m recalling scenes from the planting party with our farmily, Kelly, Mike, Loni, James, our latest and greatest WWOOFer, and his partner Rachel, and Phillis, our new apprentice. We sat in a circle and each person shared an intention for the space. I tried to read this passage by Alice Walker from In Search of Our Mother’s Gardens without crying:
“And so our mothers and grandmothers have, more often than not anonymously, handed on the creative spark, the seed of the flower they themselves never hoped to see; or like a sealed letter they could not plainly read. Guided by my heritage of a love of beauty and a respect for strength—in search of my mother’s garden, I found my own.”
I was not sure if anyone else would show up—we invited our community and put a sign up at the coffee shop. Just then, the bell on the gate jingled and Jen, a local mother with her two daughters arrived ready to help. They moved to Rimrock recently from Washington and were heartbroken to leave their garden. Jen’s daughters were rolling their eyes at mom when she admitted to bringing her roses with the move. “Our plants are part of the family,” I assured her, fearing my plant family is growing too outrageous.
Jen and her daughters helped plant and found worms.
On hands and knees we touched the soil, discovered worms and found homes for the new plants. We drank cooling farm tea, ate salty chocoaltely nut mix and stood back to admire our work. Joyful progress. One thing I know for certain is I cannot do this alone, nor do I want to. The process of creating a communal garden, grieving of the loss of my mother, raising up the Mother in all forms in a culture that degrades it. Making sacred space is collective work.
I invite you to help us celebrate the Mother and feel her nurturing spirit in us. Our next collective work party is Saturday, June 14th. From 8-11. Most weeks we are working in the Mother Garden on Friday mornings from 8-11, if you are local, please join us. If you cannot help with your hands and would like to support our efforts with a big-hearted donation, you can visit our Go Farm Me page.