To Those With Gardens

To those with gardens, I have a favor to ask, on behalf of us, those without. The urbanites, the city slickers, the apartment dwellers, the ones who live where you say you never could. We dwell in the concrete jungles with nowhere left to roam. We in the 500 square foot boxes – 800 if you’re lucky – we need you, with the garden, to go outside.

To those with gardens, leave your houses – but maintain a six-foot distance from all neighbors. Forget your shoes, you don’t need them here. Squeeze the grass between your toes. Take a deep breath. Is that a breeze? Inhale it, all of it. Please, swallow it for us. Look up at the sun; close your eyes, it’ll be bright. Bend your neck and point your chin to the sky. There’s nothing between you and the bright rays now, not a window, not a curtain, not a wall. Let the rays drench you. Sprawl in their warmth and smile while they spread across your face. Dab on a bit of sunscreen.

To those with gardens, look at your flowers, your plants, your vegetables, your fruits. Look at what has grown while you were locked away inside. Take in its beauty. Look at what you’ve brought to life, you with the dirt and the sun and the rain. Look at what is new and bright in all this darkness and death. Look how life has found its way in your garden. Hold that life in your hands, its colors in your eyes. Bring your nose to your flowers, let them gift you their scent. Let your garden show you the gifts it’s been waiting to give all year long.

To those with gardens, dig your hands in the dirt. Crush it beneath your weight, crumble it in your grasp. Let it soil your clothes and stain the soles of your feet. You are barefoot, aren’t you? It’s perfectly cool, delightfully fluffy. Mold it into a mound, dig it into a hole. See it’s layers, the underground haven of your partners, the small ones that creep and crawl and help your garden to grow.

When you look up at the trees around you, you with the garden, watch the leaves dance. Are they bright green with youth or emerald with age? Do they shimmer as they flip, over and over in a gentle breeze? Hear their song while they rustle, their silence when they’re still. They too have been waiting to see you all year. Let them.

To you with gardens, with grass, with trees, think of us inside, as you lie there with nothing obstructing your view of the great blue. Love your gardens, your space, your land. Give them your time, more time than you give the technologies that bind you. Bring your families to your gardens, your loved ones, those you protect. Let your gardens mend your worries, melt your stress, diminish your anger, and comfort your fear. Let them heal you the way only a mother can heal.

To those of you with gardens, spend time in your gardens, for those of us who cannot.