Garden Therapy

"At the bottom of freshly dug holes, I bury my problems alongside the waxen seeds.” ~Kelseyleigh Reber~


In the garden we connect with that which is deeply rooted in our primal past. The same ground is certainly a reflection of our divine meditation cast upon the field with aspirations of harvest. Among the soil one will find ants collecting in their armor and worms twisting blind and soft through the muck. The same cool breathe of wind that stirs the grass to sing touches the sweltering brow of the gardener on a hot July afternoon.  Nature offers a siren song to heal the wounded soul.

A garden holds a mirror to our very being. It is a both a place of immense beauty and promise as well as a sanctuary of endless decay. Both blossom and shit share the same lush landscape and neither can claim the crown without the other.

With that said there is a peace found within the toil of seed and shovel that cannot be found anyplace else, this I swear to you. Science may speak of a decrease in cortisol and the good book may speak of Eden but the answer, I would suggest, may be far more similar to rhythm. It is the space between the notes that give life to the music and thus it is the same within the sacred space of soil and stone. The truth lies somewhere among the silence and the strife. 

Once while in the garden I witnessed a falcon effortlessly streak through the branches of a large pine to spear a sparrow. A forest full of melody suddenly ceased as the soft plumes of the small bird fell to the earth below. There is a privilege provided for those of us patient enough to kneel among the briar and moss. 

I have planted seed in the steady cold rain of spring. Provided a feast for the mosquito while pulling weeds in the humid dawn of summer. Been bitten by ticks while working among the wet leaves of autumn and stood humbled in the dark silence of winter. All the while blessed to call myself the steward of this small tract of land. 

Heaven seems to exist among the rows of future harvest. I have washed away depression with sweat equity in my quiet corner. The demons tangled among the past that persist to hold on through PTSD and anxiety cease to gain a foothold when I watch the hens peck among sunflower seeds. The same can be said of the grumpy bumblebee warning me to back off from among the clover or the newborn rabbits that sleep as if the world beyond does not exist. Calmness cascades when I submit to natures pulse.

There is serenity to be found within the garden that goes well beyond the individual. It nourishes the soul, body and mind.  How else can we discard our broken shells only to be renewed among the daisy and milkweed, the thistle and the storm? Our effort is a gift not only to ourselves but to those we love so that we can then break the bread of our labors with joyful abandon. 





You can also find the work of Tobias Whitaker at Mother Earth News, Grit Magazine and on Facebook. Be sure to see what he is up to on Instagram

All photographs by Tobias Whitaker unless noted.