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.
Your contributions are the centerpiece of the paper. If you would like to contribute to our Letters section, please send your letters to the below postal address:
Or via email:
GROW is a community-based national organisation that works on mental wellbeing using a 12-step program of personal growth, mutual help and support. It operates through weekly peer support groups.
Hello to everyone in Australia. My name is Tricia. I was born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. I am serving a life sentence, and, for those of you who don’t know, a life sentence in Pennsylvania means your entire life.
In New South Wales, there were previously three levels of protective custody for vulnerable inmates, such as myself, who have autism spectrum disorder and other mental health issues.
I am writing to you about my one and only older sister, Alithea. RIP. It’s been 2 months since I lost you.
Help keep the momentum going. All donations will be vital in providing an essential resource for people in prison and their loved ones.
All donations of $2 or more are tax deductible. If you would like to pay directly into our bank account to avoid the processing fee, please contact donate@abouttime.org.au. ABN 67 667 331 106.
Help us get About Time off the ground. All donations are tax deductible and will be vital in providing an essential resource for people in prison and their loved ones.
Your browser window currently does not have enough height, or is zoomed in too far to view our website content correctly. Once the window reaches the minimum required height or zoom percentage, the content will display automatically.
Alternatively, you can learn more via the links below.
Leave a Comment
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Suspendisse varius enim in eros elementum tristique. Duis cursus, mi quis viverra ornare, eros dolor interdum nulla, ut commodo diam libero vitae erat. Aenean faucibus nibh et justo cursus id rutrum lorem imperdiet. Nunc ut sem vitae risus tristique posuere. uis cursus, mi quis viverra ornare, eros dolor interdum nulla, ut commodo diam libero vitae erat. Aenean faucibus nibh et justo cursus id rutrum lorem imperdiet. Nunc ut sem vitae risus tristique posuere.