The grief garden

As I was planting seeds in these various pots, I could feel my whole body tense with anxiety.

What if these seeds didn’t sprout or bloom?
What if they’re too old to germinate?
What if I don’t end up harvesting anything?

It’s a feeling I notice every time I plant a garden.

I could feel the grief of my son swell in my heart, bringing familiar tears to my eyes. It was the same fear, the same feeling I had when I was pregnant with him.

What if the baby dies?
What if the seed I planted in my womb doesn’t grow to fruition?

I carried that fear my whole life and into my pregnancy.

I now am, living, facing that fear every day.

Planting a garden,
planting seeds,
starting anything new for that matter,
has become a practice of showing up.

A practice of trying again.

Knowing with every cell of my being that the seeds I plant may not germinate. They may very well die. After all, the most important seed I ever planted did, so why not these?

It’s the practice of being with the unknown and showing up anyway.

Choosing to try again even when my hope, my faith in … literally anything and everything… has been tested - pushed - to its very limits.

Can I try again?

Can I stand back up?

Can I plant a new garden even if the last one died?

Can I sew seeds in the dirt with shaky hands?

Can I water these new seedlings with my tears?

As I’m writing this I can see the green mountain behind my screen.
The mountain that used to be covered in snow.
Trees dormant amidst the cold.

Now, a verdant hill captures my view.

New life poking its head up once more.

Even after a cold dark winter.

Even after the forest fires from 2 years earlier.

Life still finds away.

Seeds still do their best to grow while the Earth does her best to help them. Tending to their fragility.

And if you look closely enough, even in Spring you will find death. Fallen trees covered in moss, lifeless bees on a windowsill, bones in the forest of animals long passed.

It’s a cycle that keeps on going - with or without human intervention.

And here I am, questioning… even fearing… that the seeds I plant won’t grow. Funny that.

A being of the Earth (me), with her hands in the dirt, so filled with anxiety that she is somehow incapable of taking part in her true nature - to create. Just like every other part of creation has since the dawn of time, each in their own special way.

Truthfully - even though Floyd died. Even though my mothering journey is filled with heartache instead of diapers. It’s still mothering. I still birthed something that day - not just a baby, nor a mother and father… but a wisdom, a learning, a healing… a Humbling.

Something was birthed that day that still doesn’t have words to express exactly what it is. Something well beyond articulation.

Perhaps for now it’s just a seed that’s been planted. Perhaps I’m just a seed. This new version of me, watering myself with my tears of grief until it’s my time to bloom in whatever way I may.

Thank you Floyd endlessly for every teaching, every perspective shift you’ve given me.

We love you forever, our beautiful hummingbird baby.

In reverence,

Emma Cardinal