My old man is a gardener, always has been. Of course, he came up on a farm and went through hard times, times when you had to grow food, and the better you did, the less your stomach aches.
Now (and since I was a kid) he just does it for the love of it. I can’t tell you how many conversations I’ve had with Dad bent over a garden bed in need of weeding or holding a hose and (with the dissatisfaction of a teenager who stumbles upon a chore) helping water.
Dad would always say “there’s something about toiling in the garden, getting your hands in soil, it earths me out.”
I’ve never really thought much about this, my old man has wisdom to share about most anything and has always freely shared it with his sons.
I took a different path in life. The monsters from my childhood were not as tangible or clear-cut as hunger and rather than fight them, I ran. Seeking escape in all its best (and most potent) forms.
I should have died, but instead I wound up incarcerated. Stripped of everything, money, clothes, outside stressors like bills or a place to stay, I started to rebuild myself as best I could. Learning lessons (some harder than others) along the way. Meeting some good and (plenty) of interesting characters, I knuckled down and finally decided I want to like myself.
Some years went by and I found myself in a location that offered the use of a community garden to residents.
Getting my own plot, learning about improving soil and the planting of seasonal plants has been a unique pleasure – harvesting the fruits of my labour has been a delicious one.
Now, when I call my old man, I tell him all the time, “You were right, Dad. There is something about getting down on your hands and knees, digging into the soil, feeling it tumble over your hands and sift between your fingers, with the sun on your back and your love and time in the garden before you. It is grounding. It brings me a sense of peace that seems to both remove me from and bring me into myself."
He just laughs and says “that’s good son”. (His advice never comes with expectation). Yeah Dad, I guess it is.
My old man is a gardener, always has been. Of course, he came up on a farm and went through hard times, times when you had to grow food, and the better you did, the less your stomach aches.
Now (and since I was a kid) he just does it for the love of it. I can’t tell you how many conversations I’ve had with Dad bent over a garden bed in need of weeding or holding a hose and (with the dissatisfaction of a teenager who stumbles upon a chore) helping water.
Dad would always say “there’s something about toiling in the garden, getting your hands in soil, it earths me out.”
I’ve never really thought much about this, my old man has wisdom to share about most anything and has always freely shared it with his sons.
I took a different path in life. The monsters from my childhood were not as tangible or clear-cut as hunger and rather than fight them, I ran. Seeking escape in all its best (and most potent) forms.
I should have died, but instead I wound up incarcerated. Stripped of everything, money, clothes, outside stressors like bills or a place to stay, I started to rebuild myself as best I could. Learning lessons (some harder than others) along the way. Meeting some good and (plenty) of interesting characters, I knuckled down and finally decided I want to like myself.
Some years went by and I found myself in a location that offered the use of a community garden to residents.
Getting my own plot, learning about improving soil and the planting of seasonal plants has been a unique pleasure – harvesting the fruits of my labour has been a delicious one.
Now, when I call my old man, I tell him all the time, “You were right, Dad. There is something about getting down on your hands and knees, digging into the soil, feeling it tumble over your hands and sift between your fingers, with the sun on your back and your love and time in the garden before you. It is grounding. It brings me a sense of peace that seems to both remove me from and bring me into myself."
He just laughs and says “that’s good son”. (His advice never comes with expectation). Yeah Dad, I guess it is.
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It is not a pleasurable experience. It is very difficult to face all those emotions and reflect over the course of your whole life.
I was always drawing as a kid, and when the opportunity came up to do an art course at age 17 I went for it.
I remember our living room used to be filled with hundreds of CDs. My mum is where my love of music came from.
You can have as many support workers and parole officers as you can get, but it will never make you stop doing crimes. It has to come from within yourself.
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