Welcome to my broken-down garden.

Welcome to my broken-down garden.  A kitchen garden is marked by a bent piece of rebar that was cast away.  A folding table that no longer unfolds provides a step between the young Romaine lettuce and the baby spinach.  Tomato plants find support in wooden chairs with no seats.  And the slats that once were chair seats tangle with fallen-down branches to form the outer perimeter of the garden. 

In the center of the kitchen garden, the glass globe from a birdfeeder and a metal mushroom is transformed into a gazing ball.  A bird had trapped itself inside the birdfeeder two days after I had hung it one winter.  I rescued the bird -- safe but scared -- and took down the feeder.  Now the copper top and bottom form shelves to a better-designed feeder that hangs from a branch of a distant tree.

Rosemary grows tall and mint grows wide and around bits of shattered birdhouses in the broken-down garden.  The footrest from an Adirondack chair provides a bridge of shade for fledgling, tender strawberry plants. Mismatched pots contain the beginnings of parsley, coriander, basil and sage.

On the outer edge of the of the kitchen garden, marigold and coreopsis reflect the sun’s light and sweeten the air, while Mexican heather and gerbera daisies try, without success, to tone down the more garish hues.  A rusty sundial settles into a secure corner, away from the blades of the lawnmower and the distracting shadows of tall trees.  A glass balloon rises from a rod and chimes with every breeze or gust of wind, its iridescent glass doubling the function of the gazing ball.

There is always part of the garden where nothing grows.  Even the weeds will visit, but soon pack up their roots and move on to more welcoming soils.  And here, in this space of nothingness, is where I inevitably want to plant.  I cannot accept that the land in front of the riotous azaleas and before the forlorn stone bench should remain empty, barren.

And so, this year, I cut off and uproot a section of the potted lavender that has flourished despite, and not because of, my ministrations.  I take the scrawny sprig and two discounted bulbs, a bag of potting soil and a rusty trowel, and try to break the curse of the fallow land.

The lavender I plant first, halfway between the curved stone bench and the peacock, because I somehow know that peacocks, even brightly painted metal ones, love lavender.  I dig holes one either side of the lavender and settle the bulbs into their new and, I hope, not inhospitable homes. 

For a moment, I admire the green life seemingly sprouting where death once multiplied.  Then I turn the metal peacock to face the lavender as if to say, “See? I know how you have suffered.”  Even then, I know I may be planting more disappointment.  But I also know, perhaps more than most, that something wonderful can grow from brokenness, and emptiness and barrenness.  And there is always room for hope in my broken-down garden.