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Not Dying, Just Dormant: A Gardener’s Journey Through Loss and Renewal
Letting go of the life we loved — even when it breaks our hearts.
Today, it took over an hour to clear off my kitchen table. Bins, boxes, jars, and packets of seeds had spilled across every surface — chairs, floor, even the cat’s water bowl.
But that’s common when a person is a gardener. Or, as my job title now says, a Horticulturist.
It’s not just a hobby. It’s a vocation. A way of life. I grow plants for food, beauty, and to replenish the natural world. I garden because I must.
For over fifty years, I’ve grown things — plants, yes, but also children, puppies, farms, and communities.
I picked up a pack with a friend’s writing: Nasturtiums: Evie, Anacortes, 2024. Then, Texas Bluebells from my daughter and a jar I’d labeled ‘carrot seeds; mixed. Old’ — for when I felt daring. Who truly knows what will grow? I’ve learned that seeds are like people: varied, particular, unpredictable, and full of potential.
As I sorted, labeled, and swept, I thought about seeds. Some wait patiently for spring. Some require fire. Some will lie dormant for years, even decades, until just the right conditions finally whisper, Now.
