Gardening when I'm not meant to be (Nielsen)

It is 10 am on the last Friday of June, and I have just come in from outside, having spent an hour playing with the dog and inspecting my tomatoes and cucumbers. The aphids are here; I need to get on that.

In a pre-Covid world, the date (June 26, 2020) does not matter. It is the day (last Friday of June). At this exact time for the past eight summers, I have sat in the freezing cold auditorium in my university’s nursing school, watching 120 of our region’s gifted high school seniors perform skits, give presentations, and display their artwork at the Commonwealth Honors Academy’s Learning Fair, a culmination of three weeks of exhausting work and fun. For seven years, I watched proudly as my students taught the community what they had learned, and last year, my first as Academic Dean, I watched with bittersweet emotions – sad I had not been in the classroom and yet so proud, knowing that I had, in some small way, facilitated this living-learning community as its new leader.

This summer is, of course, different. On April 13, we cancelled the Academy, sending congratulatory letters to students who would have been accepted. In mid-May, I planted my garden. I normally plant mid-May, but then, I set up my timed sprinkler, and on June 1 walk away for 4 weeks, maybe sneaking a peek on Sunday mornings when I’m not needed at school at 7 am. 

This summer, there is no sprinkler. Every morning I inspect the garden while the dog trots around the yard. I hand-water plants. I don’t have so many that I can’t. I look for cucumbers ready to pick, and I hope for that first ripe cherry tomato. Right now, fruit is setting, and if I’m lucky, I will have a few Brandywines for mid-summer BLTs to eat alongside the Chocolate Sprinkle grape tomatoes.

At times, June has felt empty. I have spent moments mourning what should have been, thinking “I should be at X right now.”

At the same time, I have worked to be mindful. Mindful of the time I have had to spend outside with my husband, dog, and plants. This is time I have not had for eight years, and I am thankful. I have seen perennials bloom that I have not in the four years we’ve lived in our house (I have orange lilies – who knew!?). I have witnessed my vegetable garden grow from seedlings to fully-developed and fruit-bearing plants, slowly taking over the raised bed, creeping nearer and nearer the deck. I have switched my attention from the growth and maturation of students and a community to myself and my family. For this privilege, I am thankful.

The fear and trepidation of the fall semester hang over me, especially as we turn the calendar again. For now, however, I will go outside. I will enjoy the sun and the plants. And I will be thankful.

Danielle Nielsen lives, cooks, plants, and teaches in Murray, Kentucky, where she is an English professor at Murray State University. During the pandemic you could find her obsessively baking (she had her own sourdough starter before it was cool), working in the yard, and reading.