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All of us probably have some memory of planting a seed cup during our early childhood years. Almost always, whatever seed that is planted, sprouts and grows into some small plant that doesn't usually produce whatever vegetable or flower it was intended to produce. However, the act of our having planted that one seed in that one little cup of dirt which we kept moist for a number of days was not completed for the purposes of our growing peas, potatoes, tomatoes or some other form of growing thing. It was done so that we might grow in greater awareness of our selves to seeds, dirt, the earth and all living things. There is something about watching and being a part of a seed sprouting that encourages our own sprouting and growth. Even though I only have vague memories of my seed cup during my kindergarten days, I have been left with a lifetime of wanting to participate in growth...whether it be my own or in the lives of other things, including those of plant origin as well as other humans.

The sense of awe I continue to experience about gardening was further fostered by the gardening hands of my mother. In my eyes, my mother was a first-class extra ordinary gardener. Whatever she planted grew and became beautiful. Azaleas, roses, day lilies, hydrangeas, and many more always came forth with blooms galore. I would watch her as she worked her garden and I just assumed that what she did was simply magical. I figured that when I was my mother's age my garden too would come forth as a result of my gardening magic. Digging and working the soil with her hand tools, my mother turned the dark soil as though there might be riches hidden not too far beneath the surface. I loved the smells that arose as she created a new space for another living being. An earthy, damp smell would meet my nostrils as the the soil became rightly prepared for the latest addition to the small flower garden nearest my swing set. In many respects, the garden was mine as it was were I spent most of my time as a younger child. As a swang high as I could, I was still able to see the garden space created by my mother. I could swing and be filled with the pleasant memories of gardening shared by mother and me. So high in the air with the flowers blooming below, I was nothing less than a very rich child living freely and at peace under a sunny sky.

These memories follow me into my older years. And today, as I work in my own garden with no simple magic upon which I can rely, I appreciate even more those long ago days of gardening with my mother. I remain a very rich woman who was given the gift of sharing time with a mother who loved gardening. I now understand that it is this love of gardening and all that is symbolized in the actions of planting and growing that offers and brings simple magic into our lives.

Learn more about this author, F.A. Humphrey.
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