Small Acts of Love & Healing

“To love a place is not enough. We must find ways to heal it.”

Robin Wall Kimmerer, Braiding Sweetgrass

My husband and I live in a suburban neighborhood on less than an acre of land. Three years ago, we bought the house from an elderly gentleman whose wife had passed on, and the whole place seemed to be grieving. The small lawn was dry and sparse. Birdfeeders and birdhouses stood dilapidated and empty. A once-loved flower garden struggled in the midst of weeds and depleted soil. There was an emptiness of life.

Over time, we’ve learned to love this place back to some health. One of the ways we’ve done that is to invite back into the gardens some native plants that pollinators love. Dead and dying shrubs were removed and in their place now bloom purple salvia, white gaura, paprika yarrow, milkweed, and mountain mint. Bumble bees and honey bees sing among them. 

In place of the rundown birdhouses, a large full feeder attracts cardinals, finches, nuthatches, wrens, and the occasional squirrel. And in the bare space of one bed, in which other plants struggled to survive, we have plans for a small herb and vegetable garden. 

To prepare for the garden, I’ve started brewing compost. What better word for the magic that happens when vegetable scraps, spent tea leaves, dry leaves, lawn clippings, and moisture transform into an elixir for depleted dirt? Every day I collect cuttings from vegetables and fruit, tea leaves, coffee grounds, sometimes egg shells and add them to the bin with a handful of “brown” stuff, usually dried leaves. And I stir it up. Double double, toil and…soil! What comes from this brewing is a rich, dark, crumbly organic matter full of microbes and nutrients.

When spring arrives, we’ll add this potion to the garden bed and work it in. We’ll plant tomatoes, beans, cucumbers, basil, squash. The bees will pollinate. The birds, we hope, will indulge in some tomato worms. And with continued care, the land may offer us back a small harvest.