Before your very first plant has even begun to grow, you’re already dreaming about the garden. And though that might not be where the problems begin, it’s more kindling for the flame that threatens to burn down the very thing you treasure. The dream you’ve put so much hope into.
But, for now, one thing is certain. You are standing before a patch of dirt. Nothing is growing here and you’re not sure why. So, you do the obvious thing and start with trying to figure out what’s wrong. Answer that question and soon beauty will bloom here, at the precipice of the end of the world. Oh, did I forget to mention that? The world is ending. Nearly there, even.
Now, we could explore why you would try to grow a garden when the world is so clearly dying. But, let’s not lose our train of thought. We need to figure out why your Snowdrops won’t grow. They’re the very first plant you’ve chosen and though I’ve never seen a more obvious cry for help I’ll refrain from picking on you too much and just try to help you get to the bottom of this. In this moment, it’s just you, me, your Snowdrops, and the soil.
Actually, that’s usually where the problem lies, right? In the soil. Bad Soil has killed more budding life than has ever lived. It’s a chaotic mess, never exactly how you need it. Tossed about by raging storms that rip trees out of the ground, cleaving their roots, and laving wounds too severe to scar. By the time things settle enough for you to claim your patch of dirt, all you’re left with is a puzzle piece that refuses to snap into place. So, you come to the obvious conclusion. The problem must be the soil.
But… what’s that? Do you hear it? There’s a voice in the back of your head. It might be the same voice you’re hearing now, actually. I think it’s saying that it’s not convinced. After all, you knew that this would be the soil you had to work with. And Snowdrops felt so very doable. Sure, there are dreamers out there, who yearn for apple trees in six inch pots. But… that’s not you.
You had this patch of soil specifically picked out. And while you do love to imagine the beautiful garden you could cultivate you also aspire to see each and every flower in it bloom. So you chose wisely. Or tried to, at the very least. Because now, you can’t help but see that the soil you’ve chosen just refuses to let your seeds take root. And so you wonder why the soil hates you. Because what other explanation could there be? You know that this soil has everything you need to grow even greater bounties than the treasure you’re tilling for. You’ve heard about it at the store, you’ve read about it in the magazines, and you may have even seen evidence of it on the walks you used to take. And the world was ending then, too! Even if you didn’t know it yet.
And damn it all if it doesn’t make some part of you angry all of the time and all of you angry some of the time and the rest of the time you’re just so confused that you can’t quite tell what you’re feeling.
All you know is that this soil can grow everything you’re dreaming of. But it won’t. At least not for you.
And for most of us, that’s where the story ends. We stab our trowels into the ground and give up, ignorant that where we vented our frustration we have begun to pollute the very soil we blamed with anger, bitterness, and regret. The groundwater soon runs green with envy, which worms its way through the layers of sediment, ready to spring forth and strike at any seed that dares sprout where others could not. And from this, a blight rises and clouds any light from reaching the earth, killing all hope of future growth. The lucky ones, if you can call them that, only cast a pall over their own fields. But that’s rare. Such storms usually have a way of wandering.
And just like that, we’ve made the Bad Soil, worse. Now anyone who wanders close and decides to try their hand here at growing their own flower, will have one more obstacle to overcome.
But, like I said, that’s only where the story ends for some of us. Yes, Bad Soil can be of our own making. It isn’t always and it almost never is at first. There is some measure of truth to the idea that sometimes the soil just isn’t right, even when you thought otherwise. But, it’s equally possible that the soil isn’t actually the issue here. Problems are quick to appear where we first go looking for them. And from your little patch of dirt, the soil is the first thing you see. It’s the easiest variable to blame. But, if it’s not the soil, then what could it be? Well… it might be the flower.
Now, I realize that this might be difficult to accept. I can see the way you clutch that packet of seeds, the way you hold that plant tight in your embrace, the very pot threatening to crack under the sheer sincerity of your love for it. You want a Snowdrop. You know how beautiful it would be here. It would brighten things up. Bring some serenity to the madness you see all around. And as much as you wanted to see it bloom you were also excited at the prospect of other people getting to see it. You hoped and dreamt that they would walk past your flower patch someday and smile in much the same way you’ve done countless times before with the other patches that inspired you to chase this dream.
But if you’ve managed to cling onto some measure of rationality in this decidedly irrational world, you should have some understanding that, as special and unique as your Snowdrop would be, there are many other Snowdrops out there, too. None exactly like yours, of course, but you can’t be so enamored with your Snowdrop that you don’t see that most of the other flowers out there are just as special to their gardeners as your Snowdrop is to you. And if their flowers can bloom then surely yours can, too. The soil might be bad, yes, but you’ve seen flowers grow in worse conditions. Like that one example you can never forget of that yellow daffodil that bloomed in a bed of cooled lava and eventually spread from a single flower to an entire field, transforming the barren wastes it called home, long after the land there was believed to be lost to volcanic fire.
That gardener was so proud. The sheer belief and pride on their face made you believe that you could do it, too.
But that was there and this is here. Your soil is not theirs. And you know there’s nothing you can do to change that. Different as it all may seem, it’s really just dirt as far as the eye can see. And though you might deny it, a part of you knows that it’s not the soil. It’s too easy to blame the soil. So, it must be the Snowdrop. You were prepared for how long they take to grow, but your patience wears thin. Understandably so. It’s taken longer than you ever expected. And the truth that you don’t want to admit is that you’re beginning to fear that your Snowdrop won’t ever grow here. Maybe once upon a time, it could have. But, for one reason or another, it has not — or will not — sprout.
Now, all hope isn’t lost. There are other flowers you could plant. But you don’t want to hear about them, and I don’t blame you. A rose is a poor substitute for a tulip, and a tulip a poor substitute for a rose. You wanted a Snowdrop. They were the very reason you set out after this dream. If you let go of that vision you could still have your garden, but it wouldn’t be the same.
That’s what you tell yourself. Without Snowdrops it wouldn’t be your garden, a hollow claim that might just be a lie you refuse to see the truth of. And so you begin to think that maybe all the heartache and struggle isn’t worth a flower field that’s not really the field you dreamt of. For yours is a stubborn faith that makes fools and heroes alike.
And with it driving you, you go searching for another answer. Whether or not the Snowdrops can grow here, you will keep trying. Something else must be the problem. But… if it’s not the plant… and it’s not the soil… Then, that only leaves… you.
Now, hold on. Stick with me here. I know your first instinct was to brush me off. But just because you look away doesn’t mean I’m not still here. And remember, I want the same thing you do. I don’t need to know when you’re reading this to know that the world could use a garden right about now. Or even just a single flower — regardless of the kind. Beauty in this world is always in short supply.
Still here? I’m glad. That is a good sign. But, I’d be remiss if I didn’t say that you should be a little embarrassed with yourself. After all, you’ve never grown a plant before. No, those artificial succulents don’t count. Of course there was going to be a learning curve. Okay, maybe you weren’t expecting Lombard Street, I get it, and again, I’m not blaming you. I’m a long time listener, first time caller — I know all about the road that’s led you here. This isn’t the first time you’ve tried your hand at this, but it is the first time you’ve cared this much. I mean, look at you. Standing there with the overalls and fourteen-piece stainless steel toolset. But, let’s be real, buying those was as close as you’ve come to actually gardening. And, I’m sorry, but just because you’re wearing those gloves doesn’t mean you have a green thumb. It might look like it on the outside, but we both know the truth.
But that’s not really the important part. No, the important part is that you care. And while that can be a wonderful thing, you just might care too much. It seems counterintuitive. We are taught that if we don’t care enough our flowers will never bloom. There are so many obstacles to overcome that we must be deeply passionate to find the motivation to persevere. But under the weight of your own expectations, how can any flower ever hope to sprout.
Then again, I could be wrong. Maybe that’s not you. Let me try again. I just need to take a look around.
Ah, I see what you did. You thought that was clever, didn’t you? Planting several seeds at once across the patches available to you. One more sunlit, one in shade. One more heavily watered and one more lightly tended to. You knew it would be ridiculous to hope for your first flower to bloom so easily and so you decided that you’d increase your chances and let the soil decide for you. And if, by some extraordinary chance, two, three, or all four flowers bloomed then you’d be that much closer to your garden already.
But, instead, now you’re just struggling to keep them all straight. Unsure how much sun each flower has gotten or which you should spend your time watering. No matter how fast you crane your neck to look between each patch you chose to sow, you’re only ever looking at one at a time. And time you spend on one plant is time you’re not spending on another. There’s no way around that. Just because you read every almanac you could find you thought you could have it all. Instead, you’ve just made everything harder for yourself.
Oh, you’re saying that’s not you either. One more try. I promise I’ll get it this time.
…
…
…
Heh. There it is. That damn voice again. Those echoing whispers, bouncing off the walls inside your head. You’ve heard it all before. This whole time while I’ve been talking about the soil and the plant, your gaze has been fixed on the horizon. And it’s Bad Soil as far as you can see. An entire world on the brink of death. And even when you feel enough hope to believe there might be some new growth on the other side of this troublesome affair, you’re not sure you’ll live long enough to see it. It takes a long time for a world to die and be born anew. And even if you live until then, the death throes might get you somewhere along the way. Worlds never burn down without a fight. It’ll have to go kicking and screaming to the other side, rolling over slowly into darkness until it can find its way back around to face the light. But if that’s the case, what does it matter? That’s what the voice says.
Here you are, still trying to plant a flower when you fear, soon, there will be no light to feed its growth. You are staring at a world going up in flames, edges already burned away, and you’re scared. You’re upset with yourself. You’re horrified and frozen. Shouldn’t someone be doing something about this? Shouldn’t I, you ask, staring as the world falls apart in slow motion.
Or, at the very least, shouldn’t I be growing food to last the winter, instead of dreaming of a flower field? Gardens can take many forms. Does a field of flowers really matter right now, even if it grows exactly in the way I hope?
The voice says all that, too. And it keeps you from ever trying.
I know that none of this is easy to hear, especially the parts that ring true, but avoidance only gives the voice time to save its breath and yell louder the next time your guard is down. We are so very good at bringing ourselves down, aren’t we?
In our desperate search for an answer as to why we can’t get that Snowdrop to grow, we pass from one negative possibility to the next. The soil, the plant, ourselves. The flaws in each are so much easier to pick out than the good — the redeeming qualities.
Redemption is a virtue few of us ever allow ourselves. The strength it takes to forgive ourselves, to accept where we may have made mistakes and move on, feels impossible to muster when faced with the sheer size of the hurt we carry. The shame we feel for not having our garden yet. The fear that not even a single flower will ever bloom for us. The anger that in such a hard and trying world we can’t even create one small instance of beauty to alleviate the dread, even if only for a moment.
We let these poisons take root inside of us, a burden on our very souls. They weave themselves so tightly around our hearts that they grow into a calcified shell obscuring any view of the good they all first came from. The simple and honest good — the desire to make something beautiful that we could share. And with that core truth made so difficult to see, we look away, unable to confront all the darkness that now resides where once there was only light and possibility. All we are left with is the shallow, twisted hope that something else might be to blame.
But nothing is ever that simple.
Every flower that blooms out there, on the ball of dirt we call our home, blooms in spite of all that would have kept it underground. In a dying world of a thousand blights that can kill entire fields in a moment, more flowers die than have ever truly grown to touch the sun. It’s terrifying if you think about it for too long.
But, perhaps that’s why. Perhaps that’s why we try to grow the garden, regardless. What better occasion for life exists than death?
Alone as we may seem, most of us have flowers in our care. And if we can muster the courage to kneel down and dig back into the Earth for another try, we might recognize the sound of other trowels digging alongside us. A wild horde of dissenting voices that refuse to see the world die without a care. Perhaps, with our hands in the dirt, we might realize that the act of trying to create beauty is by its very nature a beautiful thing. And if we manage to grow even a single flower in the face of all that stands against it, when we look back up maybe we’ll see a beautiful field all around us. A field of lilacs and daisies and daffodils and flowers you’ve never even seen before, stretching out as far as the eye can see, where before there was only dirt. Your Snowdrop among it all. Each and every flower the desperate cry of another gardener, whose shared pain and love will reclaim the wasteland and bring life to a dying world. Bad Soil be damned.
Photo by Phil Hearing
