“You put us in charge of your handcrafted world, repeated to us your Genesis charge. Made us stewards...” - Psalm 8:5
When I went back to my garden after a few months away, the garlic I had so carefully planted and tended was gone. The plot had been weeded, which was one small mercy, I suppose, but I didn’t recognize it. It was like a chalkboard that had been washed clean - dark, empty, almost clinical in the raking away of leaves and tangled dandelions.
I gasped. My garlic. The bulbs I had saved - a gift from my father. He had planted some too on his deck in the desert of Osoyoos. We were growing them together - cloves of connection after having been separated by a move, by a virus, by life. I had planted them just as he’d taught me - little hole in the dirt, some bone meal sprinkled in the crater made by a teaspoon, then blanketed in maple leaves carefully collected off the ground and tucked in for their winter rest. This had been October. I left and trusted the - well, it can only be described as magic for me still. The alchemy of dirt and seed, air, sun, and worms - churning and turning, and then one day in the summer I would pluck out a bulb of garlic, grown from one clove - multiplicity - loaves and fishes shit!
It was now May.
When I went to check on my garden that day and found it raked over, my dad’s garlic gone - at first I was in disbelief - quick, hot, rage-filled tears sprang to my eyes. I stormed home, a bleary mess. I shot off an indignant, shocked email to the head of our community garden:
“Someone has taken my plot, removed my garlic and I want to know what’s going on - NOW”
Tears dropped onto my keyboard. I was overreacting. But this spot in the garden had come to mean so much to me over the last year and I was panicked at the thought of losing it.
The Cheyenne Community Garden would not win any awards or be featured in any magazine. In fact, it’s a bit of a mess. A decidedly East Van tangle of weeds, decade-old planter boxes that are in desperate need of repair, and a compost bin overflowing. The members speak many languages and are of all ages and have varying gardening prowess. There are potatoes and forests of kale and spindly tomato plants creatively held up by stakes in the ground. As I rage typed and mashed the keyboard I thought about the friends I had made, Barry and Pedro, and Emily…and the garlic, what happened to my garlic?
I heard back quickly. They had accidentally given my plot away - would I be willing to move to another garden, in another neighbourhood?
No. I want my plot back.
The tears had dried and my pursuit of justice was white-hot. This was my land, my plot, my dirt.
Ok, we’ll see what we can do.
In a few hours, and after some more emails the misunderstanding had been resolved and the plot had been returned to me.
As my blood pressure regulated and I washed my tear-stained face I walked back over to the garden. I stood and took a deep breath - a swallow flitted by. A wave of shame.
Who’s land is this actually?
How arrogant to think this garden was “mine” in the first place.
Is it not all a gift?
