May we always be hopeful
Gardeners of the spirit
Who know that without darkness
Nothing comes to birth
As without light
Nothing flowers.

Bear the roots in mind

--May Sarton

Each day, my daugther and I check my garden for new shoots coming up from the dark. Today, we found new basil, chives, and lettuce. Yesterday, we admired the eggplants. But the truth is -- I am not the real gardener. I have my mother to thank for that.

I could tell that she was starting to recover from the surgery when she started reorganizing the closets. I knew she was really on her way when she made her first trip out in the car by herself -- to Lowes. She came back with plants, pots, and dirt. Not much will grow in the sand and clay of the coastal plain on which we live. But, hey, that didn't stop my mother. Over the next few weeks, she transformed my rather mundane (and small) backyard into a series of graceful groupings of containers, all offering something green. She said, "If I can get a garden to grow in Alaska, I can garden anywhere." And she was right.

She was feeling well enough to travel to West Virginia over spring break to check on that caretaker's job I blogged about January 8th. My daughter, my mother, and I packed the car, and drove north, into the mountains. I hadn't been to Big Laurel in six years.

As we started up the steep incline on the narrow dirt road, I heard my mother take a quick breath. My daughter looked out her window at the sheer drop not far from her seat and said "Whoo Hooo!" with arms waving. We wove side to side, up and down. As we finally came around the corner onto the land trust, Mom leaned forward expectantly. I think she fell in love with the Knob (the main house) at first sight. But it was the garden, I think, that sealed the deal.

Mom took the job--and she'll be starting September after going to Alaska for the summer, so she won't get a chance to plant a full garden. Perhaps some late lettuce or root vegetables. Nonetheless, she already planned how she will redo the garden area, notes sticking out of her pocket as she climbed around. "Come," she told me. "You'll feel better once you get your hands in the dirt." She was talking about herself as much as me.

The soil heals. And as she works in my garden and plans her next one, I know that this new West Virginian adventure may be what saves my mother.