Read by Matilda Longbottom

After 18 months of neglect, the state of my garden was predictable. It had gone to wrack and ruin, a casualty of my intense involvement in the Sandwich Generation, managing the simultaneous life transitions of my loved ones. My mother-in-law, Gail, embraced her move to independent living with joy, leaving behind the burdens of a big house. My mother, Marie, resisted fiercely, clinging to her independence before accepting the care she needed. Meanwhile, my youngest son, Duncan, eagerly departed for college.

Amid these upheavals, there were countless applications to fill, proofs to provide, and lives to pack up and move. Items to keep, donate, or discard formed endless piles. Sorting through feelings, memories, and experiences kept me awake at night, even as friends shared their own tales of sacrifice during similar transitions. For some, the sacrifice was cooking nutritious meals or maintaining friendships. For others, it was their cherished hobbies or that weekly yoga class. The mourning for these temporary losses was palpable, but so was the hope of reclaiming them one day.

Now, I’m ready to restore my soul through my garden. Returning to it on my hands and knees, I begged for forgiveness. My garden, ever the tough taskmaster, warned me that reclaiming its trust would take time and effort. I agreed to its terms, embracing the challenge of transforming the chaos into a sanctuary once more.

The once blurred line between an unstudied cottage garden and complete disarray had been crossed. A tall catalpa tree had bolted to eight feet in my absence, phlox roots had intertwined hopelessly with anemones, and garlic mustard had invaded, its white flowers deceptively praised by my non-gardening neighbors. Desperate to reclaim my reputation, I accepted their compliments, hiding my embarrassment at the invasive’s proliferation.

Gardens, I’ve learned, embody both the ethereal and the enduring. The good parts—roses in bloom, peonies standing tall, ripe tomatoes, and fragrant basil—are fleeting. Gardeners revel in these moments, appreciating the ephemeral beauty. The dawn dewdrops on the Lady’s Mantle, the hosta leaves before the deer arrive, and the simultaneous bloom of poppies, irises, and clematis are victories to be savored.

The bad parts, however, are persistent. Knotweed, wild oregano, and Norway maples had thrived in my absence, making their way into the heart of my garden. Now, armed with determination, I’m ready to reclaim my garden from these invaders.

My mantra is “process over outcome.” It’s no longer a mere consolation for less-than-perfect results but a guiding principle. I focus on the act of gardening itself, finding joy in digging in the dirt and hoping that something good will come of it. Slowly, confidence returns as I pull weeds and divide clumps, one small victory at a time.

Wish me well as I rebuild my garden’s trust, one act of gardening penance at a time. ❖

About the Author: Deborah Brown lives in a cottage on the historic Charles River in the Boston area. After committing many sins against her garden, she is currently performing acts of gardening penance.