Making a garden is a form of art and autobiography, a liberation of the mind from our human woes. It\u2019s letting nature carry, subdue and astound us with its boundless beauty. As a human creation that should always be organic and protective of wildlife, each garden reflects the individual gardener. Much of my gardening is just me, a hand tool, the weeds and my thoughts.<\/p>\n
Gardeners have no problem being alone, out in the weather, planting seeds\u2014and we don\u2019t call it \u201cwork.\u201d We get giddy over new growth, share successes in terms of blooms or food, worry about watering and fertilizing, research when to prune and how to do it. We tackle aphids, the elements and soil conditions ad nauseum<\/em>, and still return another day or in a new season to do it all over again.<\/p>\n Gardening taught me to practice Yutori<\/em>, a Japanese word that means \u201croom\u201d or \u201cmargin.\u201d It\u2019s a concept that encourages creating space in life to breathe and rejuvenate. Yutori is a philosophy that is deeply ingrained in Japanese culture. <\/p>\n My garden is the place where I practice Yutori, intentionally slowing down simply to breathe, listen and appreciate nature. There, I can consciously create space to relax, sit on my bench and reflect with a smile, instead of being constantly busy or rushed.<\/p>\n I do what I wish, without being pressed to do everything. The plants tell me what they need and what to prioritize, especially when it comes to water. I\u2019m glad to have the heart of a gardener, as anyone who spends as much time as we do on our genuine concern for living, growing things is also living life well. Few people are as calm and at peace as gardeners while they\u2019re lost in seeing, listening, smelling the fragrances and quietly doing their work.<\/p>\n Studies show that gardening can reduce stress, boost vitamin D levels and encourage the mind to be present. I think of gardening as self-care.<\/p>\n About 40 years ago, during a very turbulent time of my life, I was looking to buy the cheapest small house I could find, which ended up being in South San Francisco. Everyone knew where it was, as a steep hillside proclaimed the town in huge concrete letters: SOUTH SAN FRANCISCO, THE INDUSTRIAL CITY.<\/p>\n The realtor showed me a one-bedroom bungalow with 1940s vintage hardwood floors, a scruffy square of lawn and nothing updated. She waited for me in her car, convinced that I hated it, as my leaden expression showed during the tour.<\/p>\n I ambled down the driveway to the backyard, where I found a smattering of dandelions with remnants of some dead plants. On the other side of a picket fence, an older man leaned on a rake, studying me closely. A thin wand in pressed overalls with curly grey hair.<\/p>\n \u201cYou like gardening?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t know anything about it.\u201d During my childhood, my father had run the lawn mower and turned on the sprinklers. Our small yard had been used for entertainment and as a backdrop for home movies, and that was about it for my family\u2019s ties to greenery.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m Stan, the old-timer around here. All the houses need work, but the land is heaven. Hard to find in the Bay Area.\u201d He slowly bent down to grasp his Thermos at his feet.<\/p>\n \u201cMine\u2019s Emily. Why is it heaven?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBecause it\u2019s a garden, a place of beauty and solace. I can grow my own food with nothing on it but taste, right outside my back door.\u201d He shuffled over to the fence, extending his hand. It was strong, despite swollen, hard knuckles.<\/p>\n \u201cSolace? I haven\u2019t found any.\u201d These words popped out of my mouth, as if they were waiting for a drop of rain to emerge.<\/p>\n \u201cIf you end up buying the place, I\u2019ll show you how to grow some surefire things, like radishes and marigolds. We can go from there.\u201d<\/p>\n I shrugged and replied, \u201cI\u2019m a complete novice.\u201d<\/p>\n I heard the tired voice of the realtor calling me from the street, but I shouted back for him to wait a few minutes. I sensed how special Stan was, how wonderful he would be as a friend and neighbour. I wasn\u2019t willing to tell him much about myself, but I asked him to do so.<\/p>\n I learned that when he was 19, he enlisted in the Marines during the Second World War. His unit was sent to the Philippines. When the Japanese overran Bataan in 1942, he was captured, but he somehow managed to survive a death march of more than 50 miles to an infamous Prisoner of War (POW) camp. He described the lengthy line of emaciated men, prodded by rifle butts, who were shot where they fell. The camp officer was hung after liberation.<\/p>\n \u201cWe POW survivors called ourselves \u2018the guests of the Emperor.\u2019 I\u2019m lucky to be alive, but only a scrap of the kid returned from the war.\u201d In the army hospital after his liberation, he tried to kill himself.<\/p>\nPracticing Yutori<\/h2>\n
\nHow I got started <\/h2>\n
\nStan\u2019s story<\/h2>\n
\nGardening is about peace<\/h2>\n
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