In The Hands Of The Garden

The Northern chill still hangs on the breeze. For now, the days are long and warm and if Nature is in a giving mood, the faint scent of mossy summer forest will dance with the Wind for at least another month. It’s been a hard year so far made more difficult by the disappearance of good weather. My skin craves the warmth and comfort of the Sun, but Nature is rarely inclined to give us what we need. 
Every agreeable day on Haida Gwaii is a blessing we are aware of. Not a soul on our lonely islands takes the unusual sunny days of summer for granted.

It’s been 5 years since our last terrible summer and I fear we’re due for another year of perpetual rain. Each day of stolen sunshine feels like one borrowed from fate, as does each day of freedom from the fatigue of my condition. I often wonder how many of my challenges are tethered to our inclement weather, a mystery that hinges on the success of my garden, and gardens need Sun as much as they do Rain. 
There were two deaths in my world this year, leaving a terrible hole in the fabric of my family. It’s been a jarring and traumatic reality that has forced me to look at what I really want from this existence, more time and energy. The fundamental ingredients for a quality life. 

I crave adventures with my horses, full days of bringing art to life in my gardens, and more long mornings wrapped in the loving arms of my husband. There are so many books waiting to get lost in and so many more waiting for me to bring them to life. But art and literature don’t pay the bills. 

It will be another 10 years before my earliest age of retirement. Punkin Pie, the horse of my living fantasies, will be 20. The balance between my dreams and reality are at constant odds, made worse by knowing that at any moment I could lose the ability to enjoy it all. 
 As I walk the edge of this knife that is my condition, I recognized that every choice is one that strengths me, or one that takes my strength away. Each day of freedom from the soul sucking pain and fatigue of fibromyalgia are days earned through careful planning, restraint, and painstaking labor in the garden. A garden which rely’s on the goodwill of Nature. And if you know her, then you’ll know she’s not keen on the plans of humans who wish to defy her. And to garden my friends is an act of defiance in her eyes. 

I can’t grow more hours in the day, but I can grow food that provides me with the highest quality energy. With that energy, I could make use of the snippets of time snatched from the humdrum of survival and take advantage of the fractions of possibilities sprinkled about my days. But first I must appease the forces I dare to provoke. 

The mud has returned in a slurry of pudding that coats the recently hardened ground with a layer of ever deepening sludge. We saw the forest floor dry for a week before it returned to its liquid state, making the daily chore of caring for the horses that much more difficult once again. 
Rain brought with him an army of slugs that covered and destroyed my seedling crops right in front of my eyes. The birds, now finished plucking my infant carrots, have discovered there is a fresh batch of worms who’ve been forced to the surface by the extra moisture in their subterranean homes, residing just beneath the layer of wood chips.

The garlic and potatoes, two carefully tucked in crops, are now being unearthed by my feathered neighbors. And the lushness of it all is too much temptation for the deer that call our backyard home. 

Every morning, I look at the long-term forecast to see how the tale of our short-term future changes. Every day I’m told a new story of what favors I might expect from the Sky. I have learned to read it like fiction with a wistful hope that when we arrive at the moment, the weather will be kind enough to grace our garden with the warmth and nourishment of sunshine. 

There’s magic in the food I grow. It’s difficult to explain the shift in my health that happens when my meals become predominantly home grown. There’s a profound sense of clarity in my thoughts and my lungs. The ability to think and breath were two surprises I wasn’t expecting when I finally grew enough food to supply myself with most of what I ate in a day.

There’s a deeper feeling of strength and ability that fills my core with ambition and drive. Although the long days of summer leave me tired and haggard looking, I am grateful for every moment that I can cultivate a higher quality of life. A quality of life I intend to fight for. 
It might be the excellent minerals layered into my soil, enriching the plants I consume with trace elements now disappearing from commercially grown produce. Then there’s the possibility that it’s the lack of poison I’m no longer putting into my body with every bite. Or maybe it’s the sheer belief that the garden can, and will, help me heal from this awful disease. Whatever it is, it’s magic to me. But this year, however, I can taste the lack of sunshine in everything that ripens. The hollow flavor shakes my faith. Will the magic that healed me still be there? 

The experiment of this healing garden is still in its infancy. It was only last year and by accident that I learned of its hidden powers. It came to me out of nowhere. A sudden feeling of health and wellbeing that I had never experienced caught me off guard. 
The tangle of thoughts I have lived in my who life unraveled. When I felt the last layer of fog lift, my thoughts became crystal clear. For the first time, I could think things through from start to finish, making every daily task beautifully simple and easy. You never realize how trapped in the mists of your mind you are until they release you from their spell. 

My lungs, free from their restrictive binding, filled the entirety of my body with every breath. I could breathe through my nose, into my lungs, and deep into my chest. A quality of breath that was new to me. A breath that kept the migraines at bay and allowed me to sleep through the night. 
I was cured. I knew I was.

Then the winter came and my store of home-grown food dwindled until I found myself back at the grocery store shopping for produce. At first I thought it was the extra fruits and vegetables that held the magic, but the more I ate, the worse I felt. 

Then I thought that maybe the cure was in the lack of chemicals I had consumed during the harvest season, so I made the switch to organic, which is no easy feat when you live remotely. 

For months I have been living on dried foods, apples and what greens I could convince my garden to produce early. While I can breathe through my nose again, I am far from the feeling of being magically cured. 

As I watch the garden start to produce, I pray to whatever benevolent spirit might hear me that the medicine I found in my plants last year will be there again despite lack of Sun. 

If you know magic, then you know there is always a cost, and garden magic is paid for in the currency of time and energy. I watch my days slip into months as I fight Nature’s army of mercenaries. Every ounce of effort I can spare is spent trying to sustain the health and safety of the plants I believe will mend my broken body. 

The solstice has passed and I have yet to ride this season. The horses have been my reason to fight for healing and now I find myself fighting so hard there’s no more time left in the day to enjoy what I’m fighting for. 

I tell myself that with every improvement in the garden, my job gets easier. Soon it will be simple. Soon everything will be set up and protected. But what about now? 

Is there a place between healing and healed where one can pause and enjoy the view of what’s to come? 

Is there respite from the forces of Nature that test my resolve to heal around every corner? 

Is there a way to feel good enough while continuing to grow the magic that will heal me? 

The only way to know for sure is not to give up.