More Than Enough
Standing barefooted in the warm freshly tilled soil, I look at the tomato plants I have grown from seed, watching as their leaves curl towards the sun. Thirty-one of them, not including the ones in pots on the deck—thirty-five cherries, plums, and beefsteak tomato plants. Oh, and twenty-two peppers, and I haven't even mentioned the squash (butternut and yellow), zucchini, pumpkins, cucumbers, asparagus, mustard, lettuce, spinach, peas (snow and snap), beets, radishes, carrots (long and baby), mesclun, endives, Swiss chard, and kale. But the tomatoes are my focus, because there are thirty-five plants that will hopefully produce more than a hundred tomatoes for my family.
After taking a nutrition class online this spring from my local community college, I realized just how important vegetables were for my health. Hence my current predicament of having to fit thirty-one tomato plants within a five-by-five foot square. But as I smack my lips at the thought of salsa, tomatoes on pizza, tomatoes with cheese, and numerous other veggie delicacies, I think about how many of those tomatoes we will actually use. Half of my family doesn't even like tomatoes. Maybe I shouldn't have planted so many.
But what else would I do with them? I don't want to throw them out, because I cannot bear the thought of wasting food. Already we waste forty percent of the food supply in the U.S. (FDA, n.d., para. 1), and with my Pennsylvania Dutch upbringing, food waste is almost as much of a crime as murder.
I think about what else I could do as I crush eggshells around the plants to ward off snails. I could give it away—or sell it. I could get a decent price for organic tomatoes. But then, they won't look as nice as store-bought ones, and with the coronavirus right now, nobody is likely to buy any from a teenage girl who raised them in her backyard. Maybe I should give away some of them. In fact, that is what I should do. It would be like giving the first-fruits to God. Except I can't exactly just drop a tomato in the offering basket at church (whenever church opens up again). Well, I could donate them to a food pantry. I think of the forty million people in the United States that struggle with food insecurity (DoSomething, 2019, para. 3), most of which don't get proper nutrients from fruits and vegetables. I just learned about them in nutrition class, and even though I don't usually think about that sort of thing, my heart now goes out to them. Even if they might have made poor economic decisions that landed them in a spot where they aren't getting enough food, if I have plenty and they have none, I should give them some of my produce.
Yes, I decide, turning on the sprinkler for my thirsty tomato plants to take in the water. Whatever I have left, whatever I don't need, instead of throwing it out or using it as compost, this year I'll see if I can donate it. After all, there's no point in wasting food, and if God wills it I'll have more than enough.
DoSomething. (2019). 11 Facts About Hunger in the U.S. DoSomething.org.
FDA. (n.d.). Food Loss and Waste. FDA.gov.
And the greatest of these is children
A tiny evergreen tree will be the first of my creations, whispered God to no one. I’ll watch it grow very slowly and keenly observe the wonder of new life coming forth from the empty ground. I will name it my Christmas tree. Perhaps it will inspire the giving of gifts.
Next to my majestic tree, I’ll plant an enormous field of vibrant red poppies. As I look down from my eternal home, such delight there will be in glimpsing sunshine and rainfall which bring these treasures to life. I believe they also have the potential to take on greater meaning down the road.
Having a splendid forest of hardy and robust trees, and a garden of heavenly flowers, what more could be created to make this a perfect world?
Is there something that would be wanted desperately and cherished totally for time unending? I vision the smiling face of a perfect creature who would be known as a baby. He reaches tiny fingers and toes toward heaven. All across the world his presence is celebrated. The entry of this infant into a place called earth is always described as a wonderous miracle. One special child I may call son. His magnificence is far beyond any stately tree or field of flowers.
Children will be the answer to difficult questions and showcase compassion for all other creatures. Eventually, they will join me for eternity.
Trees, flowers and children will be life’s greatest treasures. And the greatest of these is children.
A conversation through time
Throughout my life, reading has taught me much that I am grateful for. It has made me realize I am mostly normal, for one thing. That I am not alone in my thoughts, mannerisms, and deep-rooted fears.
The more you read, the more you know this to be true: we are all humans; our guiding principles a product of our time. I feel as others feel; I yearn and suffer as others do. My dreams, precious and personal as they are, exist in parallel to a multitude of similar aspirations from others. Reading has taught me that despite of what my mother may think, I am, at the end of the day, a pretty average person. Mundane. Ordinary, even. A liberating and terrifying thought in equal measure.
Reading also taught me to appreciate the window through time that is literature. We are privileged to listen and learn from great minds of the past. Scientists in awe of the natural world, pondering over the mysteries of life and the universe: Darwin, Einstein, Sagan. Philosophers debating the puzzling questions that are, to this day, still mostly unresolved: De Beauvoir, Sartre, Camus. Take your pick and take them to bed. Snuggle up with them under the covers. Yes, yes – I know. It’s only a book. But isn’t it thrilling, isn’t’ it electrifying to have these illustrious guests all in your head? To own a direct line to someone else’s effervescent thoughts from long ago? Someone who once was, now gone in the spell that is time itself? I think so.
The one story that has deeply impacted my worldview is David Foster Wallace’s essay A supposedly fun thing I will never do again, even more so recently as I approach the age the author was when he wrote it. In this piece, Wallace narrates his experiences and opinions on a seven-night luxury Caribbean cruise. His account of the trip is delightfully scathing, and he is as unforgiving with others as with himself. There is one particular excerpt in which he talks about ageing and how his decisions will eventually narrow his existence down to an inescapable path, locking him into a life he does not necessarily want, and one which he can’t change or escape from. However, he ponders, as he is the one making these choices, the situation is unavoidable – all adults must make decisions and live with the consequences they entail.
As I read Wallace’s piece, I could not help but feel a deep sense of appreciation for this man who could elaborate on a complex feeling so articulately. His writing was elegant, and the words flowed effortlessly from the page. And just like that, he had explained with grace a feeling I had carried with me all my life. We had the same angst, we shared the same disquiet. It was normal. We were normal. I was normal. It was one of those conversations through time, and one I will be forever grateful for.
