A Garden

My transformation began slowly. There were bits of seeds planted when we went camping as kids and told to police the grounds before we could leave a campsite. Trash bags were in our cars, and we picked up litter whenever we went on a hike. The seeds began to sprout when I read “Silent Spring” , suggested by my favorite librarian. And roots took hold as my class celebrated the first Earth Day, a day to show concern for the whole earth. The seeds and roots had turned into large plants as my college friends and I went hiking above and spelunking below the Appalachian Mountains. My love of nature was fully formed, and I wanted to take care of this earth, this planet we all live on.

I got lost though, growing my career.

I was like a scout needing to find the perfect item for this show, that play. I'd drive three hours to a great antiques mall, searching for the chair in that perfect color, or the right desk . Maybe, instead, it was an appliance not made in a hundred years, or at least something that could pass for it. Then, a couple of days later, I'd drive the three hours back again, in a large old van, to pick it all up.

I’d use oil base stains to darken the wood, or spray enamel paints on something for a quick change. I’d unupholster the chair, throwing old foam and fabric away, not caring about the condition. All that mattered was getting finished on time so the show would look good.

I lived in that world for many years, until another change happened.

I read an article and something I'd forgotten started nudging me, but I wasn’t sure what it was. I watched something about nature on television; that little tickle became stronger. I watched more shows about nature and read more books. I started to feel like my old self.

Taking classes filled in some of the holes. I understood what we were doing to this earth. I took more classes. I understood more. I began talking to people about what we were doing. But many weren’t interested. They just got a new car with good mileage, all of twenty-two miles per gallon. They said they recycled, but sometimes forgot. They said they rinsed the plastic shampoo bottle before putting it out for recycling, sometimes. They said they separated that pizza box from the clean cardboard that could be recycled.

People around me said they cared about the earth. But they would fly all over the world, several times a year without thinking what that was doing to the air. They'd go for drives because they felt like it. They would bring home plastic bags from the grocery with each type of produce in its own bag. They'd buy boxes of plastic bags, for leftovers and storage. They'd print everything, using only one side of the paper, never thinking of changing their default setting. Many things were ordered online, not acknowledging the extra packaging for every item shipped. They bragged about their inexpensive clothes, made across the world, by the very poor earning maybe a dollar a day.

And I looked away. It was too hard listening to their excuses explaining why what they were doing was acceptable. And I got tired of seeing their exasperated faces when I tried to argue with them. "Oy, here she goes again"

But I started responding back. I pointed out the extra packaging, was hurting the environment, informing them that all that plastic and styrofoam was all made from fossil fuels. I told them those microfibers found in their new clothes ended up in the sea hurting its life.

I drew, painted and sculpted trees. I planted real trees on the campus where I worked. I planted oyster spat in the harbor near where I lived, so they'd hopefully grow and begin cleaning the Bay again. I planted vegetables in a raised bed, for home grown salads. I planted ideas in the young by teaching art in public schools. I inspired them to clean their neighborhoods, to pick up trash, to reuse the paper from art projects. I convinced them to use reusable bottles and carry their own reusable bags.

It began to feel like my garden had enlarged to include others, who also cared. More people could see the damage themselves and started caring. ... Maybe my garden didn't belong to just me.