“The garden year has no beginning and no end.”
—Elizabeth Lawrence, A Southern Garden, 1942
When I lived in Minnesota, my garden was a living pantry. I planted in the rich soil of old farmland. Each spring, I knelt in that black dirt with my seeds, already imagining the shelves of colorful jars that would line my kitchen come fall. Hundreds of pints and quarts: tomatoes, beans, pickles, salsas, and relishes. My hands knew that soil’s weight, its scent, and its way of holding moisture through summer days.
Then I moved to South Carolina, and the land introduced itself in an entirely different way. I planted with the same faith, the same motions, but by June 10 my garden was done, burned by the unrelenting sun and humidity, even with frequent watering. My zucchini vines sprawled but bore pale, flavorless orbs; the tomatoes burst and split in hours, becoming a feast for bugs instead of my table. Only the hot peppers thrived, almost mocking the rest.
In Minnesota, I followed the rhythm of spring planting, summer tending, fall’s harvest, and winter’s rest. In South Carolina, the calendar is cyclical in a different way. Disease, heat, and pests don’t pause; they adapt. The garden is always in motion.
That motion is where the practice becomes more than gardening. It becomes a way of living: we’re attentive to the seasons, the shifts in light, and the constant dialogue between land and life. Across generations, my Indigenous ancestors on Turtle Island and my Celtic ancestors in Europe knew tending the earth was never just about the harvest. It was about living in balance, honoring cycles, adapting to what each season offers. Working the soil quiets the mind and roots the body in a relationship older than memory. It teaches humility. Gardens are not conquered by human effort alone. We are the earth’s domain.
The failure of my first southern garden taught me shade is not a luxury in the South; it’s a necessity. The pale zucchini reminded me that even familiar crops need adjustments to thrive. Meanwhile, the prolific peppers showed me how things can grow even when others fail.
Gardening this way asks us to adapt all year, planting in harmony with place rather than expectation. My Minnesota garden gave me abundance. My South Carolina garden is teaching adaptation. Both feed me; both remind me that to live well is to be in relationship with the earth’s constant change.
Prayer
Spirit of Life,
we give thanks for the soil where life begins and ends,
for the black, rain-scented loam of the North
and the sun-baked sands of the South.
Teach us to plant with faith,
to tend with patience,
to harvest with gratitude,
and to rest with trust in the seasons to come.
When the peppers thrive, may we rejoice.
When the zucchini transforms, may we learn.
When the tomatoes split before our eyes,
may we remember that every season
holds both birth and loss,
and both are teachers.
Root us in humility and hope.
Grow in us the wisdom to live in balance,
to honor cycles older than we can remember,
and to adapt with courage to each season’s gifts and limits.
Let our lives, like our gardens,
be shaped by care,
by listening,
and by love for the Earth that sustains us all.
Eh-eh. Amen. Ashe. Blessed-be.