I used to love gardening. I spent hours pouring over books and magazines, planning which plants I was going to buy and where I would place them. That was at our last house. We moved here shortly after Mikey was born and occasionally pull the weeds.
At this house, we don’t garden much. Really, we don’t leave the house. We spend our time indoors or running errands, and for the life of me I couldn’t remember what prompted this change as I rattled off the flowers in my sister-in-law’s wedding reception table arrangements.
“You certainly know your flowers,” said the florist, a family friend.
“I used to garden a lot,” I responded.
I decided to get back into gardening when we returned from Florida. I bought three house plants (I used to have dozens) and a few packets of wild flower seed for around the large Chinese Elm in the backyard. I even bought one of those fancy hose attachments, the kind for watering potted plants and beds that gives you that picturesque spray of water.
Yesterday the boys and I planted the seeds around the tree. I’m excited to see if they germinate and bloom. Nicholas ran around the yard, Mikey did his homework on a picnic bench, and I watered the new bed of flowers, the soft, gentle spray from my new hose attachment just what I needed to remind me to slow down and get back to living.
I should do this more often, I thought. I unscrewed the hose attachment with some difficultly as I wondered why on earth we stopped gardening and taking care of the yard. Then the attachment popped off and out from the hose shot a train track and 8 plastic watercolor paintbrushes.
And I thought, oh yeah. That’s why.