I Hope You Garden: Thoughts from a Master Gardener Mom-To-Be

by Katie Walker, CCMGA Master Gardener

I hope you never lose your sense of wonder, you get your fill to eat but always keep that hunger…

Lee Ann Womack’s country pop hit I Hope You Dance always made me a little misty. But now? I’m bawling over my keyboard even before the first chorus. I’m almost seven months pregnant: emotional, exhausted, and elated. Hormonal roller coaster aside, I’ve always had a deeply sentimental connection to music. Although some may call it cheesy, the song evokes both the memory of my own idyllic childhood and the vision of my hopes for my son.

In the spirit of I Hope You Dance, I’ve compiled my thoughts about these hopes specific to gardening: another profoundly impactful area of my life  — one, like music, I dream of sharing with him. So, if I were to write lyrics to my own version, I Hope You Garden, these might be a few of them.

Dear son…

May your imagination flourish.

I wasn’t born a gardener, but I was born a creative. I believe all kids are. Just like our clay soil, though, it’s up to parents to cultivate that creativity. This can come in many forms. Piano lessons and drawing classes, sure, but the art of boredom? It’s the compost — the greatest form of cultivation — in my opinion. Some of my fondest memories are of independent play, particularly outdoors. I had a log cabin-style playhouse underneath a crabapple tree when I was little, and I’d spend hours playing happily by myself while my mom gardened: making “potions” from holly berries and rosemary sprigs, naming and personifying the small herd of box turtles that roamed free in the backyard, recreating scenes from the Oregon Trail game, scouting the skies for prospective tornadoes and generally being a carefree, curious child. My outdoor oasis was a small Plano backyard, but it was more than enough. My mom filled it with an abundance of sensory objects: plants of all kinds, fountains, nooks and crannies to explore – all of which occupied me endlessly. The wildlife that followed her efforts was the icing on the cake. And what I didn’t realize at the time? While immersed in that wondrous space, I was soaking up knowledge: watching her work, watching seasons change, watching life cycles begin and end. I lived simultaneously in my mind and in nature — not glued to a screen. May you, too, discover your inner world and inner voice in your own Plano backyard. And may your imagination take you far beyond the physical boundaries of our fence.

May nature be the foundation of your adventures.

When you’re old enough to venture out on your own, I hope you see the gardens of the world: reflections of the people who care for them and the wildlife that calls them home. After floundering a bit in the life sciences as an early undergrad, I settled on an environmental studies major. It felt right — like the grown-up version of my childhood backyard education. I spent a January term in Costa Rica as a junior, and I recall snapping photos of plants I recognized to share with my mom: Look, a bird of paradise growing in the wild! Check out my host family’s tiny courtyard! Can you believe these huge, amazing local fruits I had for breakfast? Mind you, this was a phase of young adulthood when traveling was cool, but gardening was not. But these experiences helped uncover layers of myself that would ultimately lead me wholeheartedly back to the garden. Even during more recent travels with my parents and with my husband, seeking gardens while away is the norm. To me, they represent the best of places. They showcase style, communicate culture, and celebrate species. I can’t wait to take you to Sunken Gardens in St. Petersburg, to Springs Preserve in Las Vegas and to the Royal Botanic Garden in Sydney. I’m even more excited to see where you choose to go. What gardens will you seek? What photos will you send me from afar, and what layers of yourself will you uncover? May you discover that losing oneself in nature is a universal human experience. Wherever you are and wherever you live, may you find beauty, kindred spirits and ways to help the natural world thrive.

May you learn to be patient and resilient.

Despite my future best efforts, I’m sure you’ll hear me use some choice words. I can almost guarantee a likely occasion will be the destruction of a plant or property by some pest. Bear with my frustration. It won’t be the first or last time. For someone who loves control, gardening (much like parenting, I suppose) is the ultimate exercise in letting go. A rat will chew through your string café lights, the trash truck will run over your newly planted alley pollinator garden, and a squirrel will, most certainly, dig up the same potted plant twelve times. Gardening, like life, can be hard. Be sad. Be mad. Feel what you need to feel. Complain a little and let the choice words out. Then? Move on. Get to work. Solve the problem. Don’t be afraid to ask for help. Seek the wisdom of someone more experienced than you. Learn how to tap into trusted resources and how to decipher which ones will lead you astray. Realize that plants have a way of growing fast and slow simultaneously; growing up is much the same. One day, you’re waiting at a frosty window for your perennials to bounce back from a rough winter. The next? You’re stuffing your face with freshly harvested strawberries under the late spring sun. Appreciate both. May you enjoy the various seasons in the garden and of life. May you handle challenges with grace and support. As long as I’m around to help you, I will – even if all we can do is curse at the garden pests together.

May you feel connection.
Stop and smell the flowers. Feel the breeze on your face and the soil between your fingers. Sweat. Work hard and see the results of your labor. Get connected to the world beyond you. Respect the plants, animals, and other beings you share this singular Earth with. But beyond all that, may gardening be a bridge between generations, a means of knowing and remembering family and friends even when they’re no longer with us. I never knew my grandfather. He passed away long before I was born. But he lives on in my mom’s memories, often presented to me as garden anecdotes, like how he loved to mow the lawn because the mint he’d let grow wild made it a pleasantly fragrant experience. Despite his optimism, let this also be a cautionary lesson about growing mint outside the confines of containers. My favorite garden anecdote? On a particularly ambitious day, sometime in the late 60s or early 70s, he planted a tree in their Houston backyard, among other projects, all without wearing gloves. That evening, after getting cleaned up, he noticed that a very special ring he always wore was missing. He’d done so much digging that day that he couldn’t think of where to even begin his search without digging everywhere – so he gave up. Fast forward to the early 80’s. Shortly after he died, a hurricane hit Houston and uprooted the tree he planted. My parents went to help my grandmother clean up the yard. They were pulling out the root ball when, lo and behold, there was the ring — a root growing through it like a gnarled finger. Was it a sign or a bizarre coincidence? We’ll never know. Either way, the garden reminds us that, even during the storms of life, our loved ones are always with us somehow or another. My grandfather taught my mom just about everything she knows – and, in turn, taught me – about gardening. Someday, long after I’ve passed it all on to you, may a plumeria’s fragrant flower, a monarch’s rhythmic wingbeats or a just-picked blackberry’s sweetness remind you that you’re never, ever alone. My grandfather’s recovered ring and its story will pass to you one day. May they be treasures that “root” you to your loving ancestors, always.

My song, I Hope You Garden, could go on: may you grow food that nourishes your body and soul, may you find joy in sharing your harvest with others, may you never take the gift of rain for granted (especially in North Texas). But I’ll let it be for now. There’s gardening to be done before you arrive. If you take away only one thing from these thoughts, son, know this: the greatest thing I’ll ever grow is you.

Photo Credits: Katie Walker, CCMGA®