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When my husband and I first married we rented an old house with a small, unruly yard. We happened to inherit six tomato plants from our neighbor and I was on the back deck putting them in pots when I found myself lamenting about how much stronger and larger they would grow if I could just plant them in the ground. Give them room for roots, you know.
Then a tiny, unwelcome thought made its way into my mind. What if I moved beyond the container and allowed myself to grow roots? For five years I’d lived in New York, yet kept my heart with my family in Oklahoma. Sure, I’d made friends but I hadn’t really gotten involved in the community in any kind of meaningful way. I’d tried some churches but hadn’t settled in anywhere. I’d blamed it all on my crazy hours at work but really it was my attitude – my idea that this was only temporary.
By the time those tomatoes ripened, I realized how I was limiting myself and my life began to change. It seems like such a simple observation now, but one I may not have grasped without the help of putting my hands in the soil and planting, of being close enough to creation to hear the Creator.
I know many people view gardening as a spiritual practice and they create quiet, sacred spaces for prayer and reflection. I’ve visited local rock gardens, a labyrinth bordered by flowers and a stunning synagogue where vines climb up the inside of its A-shaped walls. My blood pressure drops just thinking about it.
Some day I’d like to have a place in my yard to sit and enjoy a peaceful view, but for now I’ll have to enjoy other people’s gardens. We’ve moved into a home of our own and last summer we tore out a deck and removed shrubs to make way for growing boys, soccer balls and plastic ride-on tractors.
On the side of our house, though, are heirloom tomato plants, cucumbers, peppers and a lone pumpkin – all with plenty of room to grow.
About Marketta Gregory
I never meant to be a columnist. I trained to be a newspaper reporter -- one who tried to her best to be objective. I covered religion for a few years and felt like it was the best job a curious woman like me could ever have. Every day I got to listen as people told me about the things that were most important to them, the things that were sacred. But the newspaper industry was changing and few papers could afford to have an army of speciality reporters. So, I moved to cover the suburbs where, as luck would have it, they have plenty of religion, too.
Eventually, children came into the picture. One by birth and another two months later by foster care/adoption. I struggled to chase breaking news and be home at a decent hour, so I made the move to what we journalists call the dark side: I took a job in public relations. (Don¹t worry. I work for a great non-profit, so it¹s not dark at all.)
When I gave my notice at the Rochester (N.Y.) Democrat and Chronicle, the executive editor asked me to consider writing a column on a freelance basis. She didn¹t want the newspaper to lose touch with its religious sources, and she still wanted consistent faith coverage. I was terrified. It took me about 10 months to get back to her with a solid plan and some sample columns.
And so it began, this journey of opening up my heart to strangers.
