LAST WINTER, AFTER A FAIRLY MISERABLE EVENT LEFT ME DEJECTED AND DRAFTING ANGRY TEXTS I’D NEVER SEND, A FRIEND SIGNED ME UP FOR A COMMUNITY GARDEN PLOT. “You need a hobby that isn’t rage-texting,” she said, sliding the key to Plot #14 across the table. I showed up the first day in thrifted boots still caked with someone else’s dirt, half- expecting it to be another failed experiment in self- improvement. The plot was six feet of stubborn clay and crabgrass. The garden manager, a retiree named Susan who wore a “Weed Queen” embroidered sun hat, handed me a trowel and said, “Start with the radishes. They’re hard to kill.” I stabbed at stubborn root systems that felt like a metaphor. What I learned: Radishes are hard to kill. But they’re also hard to love—all sharp greens and underwhelming bulbs. By June, my radishes—my darling, unloveable radishes—were
bolting, stretching toward the sun like desperate actors mid- monologue. I’d sit on the bench Susan salvaged from a church rummage sale, watching bees bob between zinnias, and think: This is what people mean by mindfulness, isn’t it? Not serenity. Not gratitude. Just the slow, stubborn act of tending to something you don’t yet hate.
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Cynicism is a thistle —prickly, persistent, convinced it’s protecting the garden. But left unchecked, it takes over.
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