Let the Garden Soften the Journey



We’d had a bad day, he and I.

Not together mind you, but each in our separate lanes, navigating the daily demons that divert us all from enjoying the precious days we are granted on this Earth. Broken water lines, missed deadlines and a pointless conversation with a computerized banker featured heavily in that day for me; for him, it was a day of  answering emails and bureaucrats – neither satisfactorily – and of being faced with a Prufrock reflection or two upon the drive home.

We started with the niceties, inquiring politely as to the other’s day whilst fighting desperately against our shared baser nature to best the other in some silly tit for tat. The possibility of transference loomed ominously, as it does in any relationship that has grown comfortable and familiar with time: both of us exquisitely aware that a single word said in a certain tone would end the evening much in keeping with the day – both of us almost incapable of avoiding the collision.



Just go outside.


The children were not helping.  Far from standing obedient and happy – ready to please and anxious to assist with dinner (in the manner that I had imagined during long hours in the trenches of toddlerdom), they were teasing each other and us – noise levels growing well past the comfortable limits of middle-age.

Before long, the dog was involved.  There was barking.  Last nerves were being plucked with long jagged nails. The three cats were inexplicably and suddenly present. A shaft of light caught a thousand particles of dust and pet hair dancing furiously in the commotion, and I was unhappily reminded that the day’s injustices had also prevented me from switching on the vacuum at some point.

The situation seemed hopeless and destined to end in scrambled eggs for dinner, closed doors and television opiates.

And then someone opened the back door.



It’s all there….


Whether an instinctual move to lighten the atmosphere, or just a reaction against a cat scratching to go out, it triggered a change in the evening’s fortunes. Neither one of us had spent much time outside that day, and the breath of cool evening air came as a bit of a surprise. With the humidity relatively low and the light just beginning to set into pale shades of pink and blue, options began to present themselves.

The teenagers were firmly ushered outside with the dog and the rest of his feline harem.  The shrieking continued, but now it bounced harmlessly off the surrounding trees instead of four walls.

A bottle was opened and glasses were found in answer.  He remembered a steak I’d thrown in the fridge to marinate the night before. I remembered a long-forgotten plan for sautéed kale and baby potatoes to accompany it.



That’s better.


We both set off toward the vegetable beds.  Once I had filled my basket with the potatoes, I stuffed a bag with kale leaves, and in the spirit of an evening already made healthier, cut some lettuce and arugula for a salad while he inspected the fence posts he had set a few days previously.

And the bureaucrats disappeared. As did the bankers and the water lines, the emails and the deadlines.  All vanquished with a bit of fresh soil, a few deep breaths, and a recovered memory of our basic connection to soil and sky.



So much better.


Though it must be admitted that, for the children, the evening ended a bit differently.

The noise level continued throughout dinner, followed by teenage arrogance and eye-rolling as their father and I discussed the bounty of the garden and the blessings of life in what they perceived to be the ramblings of the old and infirm.

It was, I suppose, to be expected. How can a teenager understand the great pressures of mid-life and the greater relief in forgetting such pressures for a moment?

But they badly miscalculated our parenting strength and pushed too far, basing those calculations upon the weaknesses of earlier, pre-garden parents. Having recovered our mettle, we swiftly meted judgment to fit the crime of cluelessness; and thus convicted, two quieter teens spent the last hours of their day pressed into domestic servitude.



Crisis averted.


Their chores were our gain.  Released from further drudgery, their father and I showed them just how young and spontaneous we could be by grabbing the keys and heading over to a friend’s house to catch the last of the hockey. There might have been Scrabble involved, but I’ve been playing that since I was fourteen. All in all, a miraculous transformation of a day heading downhill fast.

Everything is better outside. Thank God someone opened that door.








By | 2018-02-20T20:41:05+00:00 June 17th, 2016|

About the Author:

Marianne is the mother of two, wife of one and the voice of The Small Town Gardener. She gardens and writes from her home in the scenic (and exceptionally convenient) heart of Virginia's wine country.


  1. Mary Lou June 18, 2016 at 4:00 am - Reply

    The power of green. Thank you.

    • Marianne Willburn June 22, 2016 at 7:08 pm - Reply

      Thanks Mary Lou. The power of green, and gold and red and all those glorious colors out there. Soul-filling.

  2. Nora June 20, 2016 at 11:55 am - Reply

    Love this. Especially the cabbage photo, which is glorious.

    • Marianne Willburn June 22, 2016 at 7:30 pm - Reply

      The photo surprised me Nora. Granted the cabbage was outstanding, but the camera gave it a bit of a face-lift – all without the post-processing nonsense!

  3. John June 22, 2016 at 1:54 pm - Reply

    Lovely post, Good to contemplate anytime the world seems like to the gremlins are getting the upper hand.

    • Marianne Willburn June 22, 2016 at 7:34 pm - Reply

      Thanks John. Some days it’s easier than others to come back to center, but as you know, gardeners have an advantage.

  4. DC Tropics June 22, 2016 at 4:44 pm - Reply

    A lovely post (as always) and strikes a similar theme to one that I’ve been putting together for my own blog. The garden is certainly a soothing and much-needed distraction from life at times!

    • Marianne Willburn June 22, 2016 at 7:37 pm - Reply

      Appreciate it John. It really doesn’t matter how big or small the garden is, it’s just a question of calming your mind and allowing that green space to work.

  5. Peggy June 23, 2016 at 2:20 am - Reply

    Your writing is so good you need to submit this to a magazine or newspaper or for an award somewhere. I can literally see the teenagers rolling their eyes — that happens so often to me too

    • Marianne Willburn June 24, 2016 at 3:15 pm - Reply

      Peggy – thanks so much! And so good to finally meet you at the GWA event at Ladew. I do believe the old adage is true: teenagers come into our lives in order to make it easier to say “goodbye sweetheart” to those cherubic babies who never rolled eyes or grew (blecch!) stubble on their chins.

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