Grieving Through Gardening
Read Time: 7 Minutes
Words and image by Jackie Leonard
My hand is deeply entwined with the succulents housed in the same terracotta pot we used as centerpieces at our wedding five years ago. It isn’t until I’ve rooted in and out a few times, making up for pruning long overdue, that I realize I should probably be wearing gloves. And yet, something about the roughness of this way of gardening feels so very me. If I get a cut, or a bite, or break a nail in the process, it will only perpetuate this affirmation. So, I continue, trimming and pruning and scooping plant by plant, pot by pot.
When we first moved into our home, it was the succulents that brought me to the yard. I was eager to finally have plants that weren’t confined to our Southern California apartment balconies -- balconies that always, conveniently, faced the most direct and oppressive sun. I wanted plants that were hardy and attractive, and planned to propagate them all over the yard.
Now, where the leatherpetal one exploded, it dangles on the side of the pot, shrunken and dulled. The new growths are small, having multiplied quickly, further evidence of my neglect.
After a couple years of abundance, the succulents needed more, but of what, I wasn’t sure. I suspected they should probably go into the ground, getting too big and reproducing too quickly to stay happy cooped in their original home. But I couldn’t commit to a decision. Months turned to years, and since they seemed okay enough, they got buried further and further down my priority list.
I continue pulling, dried leaves, pine needles, evidence of growth from within and outside our fence line. The pulling and rooting takes me back to a memory of weeding in a backyard with my step-father, tagging along with him for work. I was no more than six or seven, sitting in the dirt, repeating the tedious practice of scooping enough soil away from the base of the weed, getting a firm grip, and pulling. The idea was to get the whole root out in one pull. If it tore, the weed would return. It’s a memory that lodged itself in my mind well enough that decades later, this time a homeowner, it came back easily -- when I’d walk through the yard and lament that the yard service we paid for didn’t take care of them for us.
These days, I don’t notice them as much -- the weeds. I’m okay with a little imperfection in the cracks and natural openings in the sidewalk and pavers, so long as they don’t threaten what I’m trying to grow.
It was on a trip back to my hometown, the desert of Palm Springs, where I loaded my mother’s shopping cart with items that are now longtime residents in my garden: a couple ornately-carved terracotta pots, cactus soil, and an assortment of succulents -- jade, aloe, donkey tail, echevaria, sedum, graptopetalum, crassula, elephant bush and peperomia.
By the time my step-father arrived home, the sun was setting and we were still breathing in triple-digit weather. My mom proudly showed him our purchases. I was more hesitant to brag, knowing this was his area of expertise. As expected, he lamented that we had not asked him first, so that he could get better plants from the nurseries he frequented instead.
With his obligatory criticism out of the way, he scoured the front yard, filled with materials, tools, waste and some treasures along both sides of the property and came back with rock of all shapes and sizes. He grounded a large one in each of the two pots I’d purchased, off-center, he made a point of telling me, because it was more appealing that way. He picked out the largest two succulents I had and said these would be the focal point in each pot, the rock would help support the plants as they grew and I could plant the smaller succulents from there. As I planted, he’d drop river rock around each succulent, for additional support and aesthetic.
The final product was beyond what I’d imagined, something that would surely sell for much higher as an arrangement. To complete his masterpiece, I was directed to get some concrete cinder blocks that would add height and dimension when displaying the pots.
It is from these arrangements that the rest of my succulents spilled over, most propagated from the originals. I take a break from my clipping and pruning, butt on concrete, sweaty and pregnant, taking in with more awareness than ever before, how much my step-father’s memory lives in this yard, this house.
It is in the soil and the pavers in front of me, artifacts of summer remodels and day-long handiwork spanning the past few years. It is evidence of patchwork healing without addressing any of the past. It is me letting down my guard and his generosity and time, that warmed me up to this father figure in my adult life.
Looking now at some of these aged succulents, my thoughts go back further. Distant memories point to a different man, one who never seemed happy, one who I avoided, who I’d pray would just stop coming home, journaled about never speaking to, I couldn’t even remember the last time -- if any -- he’d told me he loved me. He was the paternal figure in the house, gone most of the time, whose presence when he returned rarely meant peace. He was often silent, and I can see now my interest in televised baseball mostly had to do with a desperate attempt to connect even just by relative proxy on the couch.
When he wasn’t quiet, he yelled. His voice, naturally loud, carried throughout the entire house even during normal conversation. But often, it was laced with anger and insult. Rarely at me, but mostly frustration with my younger siblings, his six children, and my mother. Hate lives in these memories.
For most of my life, that was the only feeling I made space for when it came to him. Hate and a strange loyalty fed by my mom’s insistence that he did love me so much, that he always saw me as his own daughter, that he showed love in different ways because of his hard life, through the occasional practical gifts, gestures, acts of service.
Where I used to see abuse and judgment, I later saw a caring father who just wanted to help. I made excuses for him. I fought with my husband to just let him do what he wanted when he came over. I appreciated the money he saved us fixing odds and ends in our home that had sat unattended for months. When my husband was upset by something my step-father said to him, I’d brush it off, saying things like “He didn’t mean it like that” or “That’s just the way he is with everyone.”
My mother’s words became my own.
In my young adulthood, I allowed myself to see a much more softened man, one who hugged me goodbye when I’d visit, and said “love you” as if we’d been doing it my whole life. When I returned home from a recent trip to Kauai, and shared with him that I wanted to grow a plumeria in our yard one day, it took less than my next visit to learn he’d purchased one for me.
Just last week, that plumeria welcomed me home after our long road trip, blossoming with at least five beautiful pink and white flowers. Symbols of paradise and peace. Its green leaves had also multiplied and grown.
I’d dreaded that drive back home after nearly three weeks away. Returning meant facing things that felt less heavy from a distance. Only a few weeks prior I’d received a phone call from my mother, when she told me her husband of 30 years, my step-father, had been having an affair that spanned over ten. She was leaving him, was the first thing she told me, before the details followed. It was early May.
It is in a garden surrounded by the artifacts of his presence that I am aware, maybe for the first time, that I’ve learned to live with memory more comfortably than with the people who created them. It is a hard thing to put my finger on, but it’s illuminated in my mind. Sparks bounce from one person to another, those living and those dead, complicated pasts and even more complicated presents.
Dizziness rises, followed by in utero somersaults and kicking. I remind myself to drink water, that I shouldn’t get too carried away in this yard work. It isn’t even a good time to do much more due to the high heat of this August day.
I slowly prop up to my feet and leave behind the discarded plants in small piles throughout the yard. Most will likely end up back in the dirt, or scattered by my son’s scooter. Maybe the gardeners will see them and throw them away before I get to them, or just as likely, they’ll get blown to collect with the rest of the debris along our fence line.
Yes, it is easier to live with these memories. To find ways to feel light instead of darkness when looking at the plumeria flowers or the double doors my step-father helped pay for. It is much harder to pick up the phone and talk to him. It is much harder to even feel anger at his recent actions, when the scars left behind from so long ago feel much more tender. Wounds that didn’t set correctly before they healed. Pain I’ve only just begun to face and acknowledge. When I’m not even sure I’m mad at him at all, and even less sure if that matters.
I survey the yard and remind myself what got me down this mental rabbit hole in the first place, the pruning.
What is pruning if not the act of making room for something beautiful? The removal of unwanted parts so new growth can happen? In this season of life, the physicality of this task is something I can trust. Enough so that I can step back inside my home at least and leave the rest to collect with the little piles that may or may not get picked back up another day.
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About the Author:
Jackie Leonard is the founder of Motherscope, a magazine and platform for women to write and share their own stories of motherhood. Jackie's writing workshops and events are designed to help others embrace their inner storytellers. She has an MFA in Creative Writing and years of experience as an editor for college and literary publications. However, it was the birth of her first child, Arlo, in 2017, and her experiences in those early days of motherhood, that inspired what would eventually become Motherscope. Jackie lives with her family of four, to include her husband and daughter (born in 2020), in San Diego, CA.
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