The Same Garden, Two Different Minds

Gardening and Mental Health

When I’m in a good place, I see beautiful things.

Walking up my front steps, I see the sweet alyssum in my garden that I planted from seed a few seasons ago that, to my delight, continues to grow back, with its bunches of tiny, playful, delicate, white blossoms swaying in the breeze.  

I see canna lilies working their way through the soil, with their tightly rolled leaves emerging at full attention, like asparagus spears, before unraveling into thick paddle-shaped, heaven-oriented leaves.

When I’m in a good place, mentally, psychologically, emotionally, I smile and feel a sense of both satisfaction and anticipation; satisfaction with their progress and beauty, with my contributions to their progress and beauty, and anticipation for the next phases of beauty that my ongoing botanical doting will hopefully unlock.

What color will the lilies be, I wonder? How tall will they get? Will they thrive? How can I support them? Maybe they’d like a layer of worm castings from my compost pile that I’ve been cultivating dutifully since last summer. I’ll read up on their likes and dislikes over Shabbat, perhaps, so as not to offend them with too much of this or too little of that.

I hate offending my plants. They are deserving of my attention, care, and love!

When I’m in a bad place, though, I don’t see beautiful things.

Walking up my front steps, I see impositions, distractions, chores…problems.

I see demands. And not just any demands…self-imposed demands, the most infuriating variety of demands, because I, and only I, am responsible for their existence. It’s as if I’m the proverbial blind man tripping over stumbling blocks, but the blocks were placed along my path not by an ill-intentioned interloper, but by me, with my own two hands!

I don’t want to water you today, and if I’m being honest, maybe I don’t want to water you ever again. Maybe your death is a prerequisite to my life.

I suppose I could just water you tomorrow, but tomorrow might as well be next year, or even a decade from now. It’s not within reach. Nowhere close.

When I’m in a bad place, my mind cannot stretch beyond the immediate moment.   

My schedule says you’re due for fertilizer, but your yellow leaves mock me, evidence of my failed attempts to address your fickle needs. You’re so cruel. You seduced me with your promise of beauty, but it was a trap.

I’m such an idiot…such a fool! Was I really lacking for caretaking responsibilities? Were my days not already sufficiently bloated with constraints? Over how many kingdoms of life must I preside and safeguard at my own constitutional expense?

Leave me alone, alyssum! Don’t give me that look, canna! Please. I’m drowning over here. You’re the straw, and I’m the camel—don’t you see that? How can you not see that?

When I’m in a bad place, I don’t see beautiful things.

I see weight. Everywhere. I feel weight everywhere. On my chest, my shoulders, my forehead. My arms hang as if logs are strapped to them.

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They are opposites, you know, sweet alyssum and canna lilies.

The former prefers to lay low and, if given the opportunity, will cascade over the edge its container, cautious, seeking the predictability and stability of terra firma. The latter, on the other hand, confidently launches skyward, seeking unobstructed views of the world, not at all self-conscious of being viewed itself without obstruction.

Alyssum, sweetly, submits to gravity. Canna defies it.

Alyssum is modern dance. Canna is ballet.  

I empathize with both.