Tomato Festival

Whenever February felt too cold and dark, I found myself bundling up and trudging out to the greenhouse. I would scoop soil into little pots and create little seed beds with my finger, as I looked out at the frozen, leafless back yard. I poured tiny tomato seeds into the palm of my hand and scooped out a few to bury, marveling at how much life can burst forth from such a tiny thing. I dropped the seeds in and covered them with soil and water, knowing that much of their lives were out of my direct control.

I love planting things, but I haven’t always been the most disciplined at the continuing care that comes after. These tomatoes were different though. I had some help from my husband and kids, but ultimately, tending those little plants became my own kind of meditation through the wild swirling and whirling of winter into a windy and unpredictable spring. 

There are a million things we do as humans to pass our days, distract ourselves, numb the discomfort of what is or isn’t changing around us. Some of those things have become so wildly complicated and consumptive. They often take us further from where we actually need to go to live our most whole-hearted lives.

I found those tomatoes often beckoning me in the moments I wanted to hide from my sadness, or fear or uncertainty. As they outgrew their pots, we had to move them into bigger ones. It felt a lot like watching my children grow up and trying to discern when they needed more space to become their fullest selves. When they started to bear tiny tomatoes, even in the greenhouse, we watched carefully for what we hoped was the last frost so we could get them safely into the dirt. As is often the case in life, the transition from a cozy, warm greenhouse to the windy outdoors was hard, and we constructed a windblock and barriers to protect them as they re-established themselves. We did the best we could and also knew that there were forces bigger than us for those little plants to figure out how to contend with. 

Yesterday, as I carried the chicken feed past the tomatoes, the glare of bright red stopped me.  We have been enjoying multiple fresh tomatoes daily for the past few weeks, but in that moment, I felt like the real harvest was finally here.  

“I hereby declare this weekend Tomato Festival!” I texted my husband.

And so, this weekend, every time I find myself lost in thought, because we are in a time of major political upheaval, and the monarchs are in deep trouble, and we’ve already had 17 mass shootings in the US in September alone, I go pick another bag of tomatoes, and look up another recipe.

It doesn’t make me forget the time and place I’m living in, or turn off the discomfort. It does anchor me though, with deep gratitude and a sense of cosmic order. These tiny seeds, planted and tended to, in what felt like the coldest dark, grew through the seasons, through discomfort and turbulence, into their fullness and are sharing their gifts lavishly. Caring for them wasn’t a way to ignore my feelings, but rather to take my love, my prayers for the world, and give them some simple form. If tiny things, planted with intention and tended with care, have the ability to turn into something so wildly beautiful, then I will always have deep hope for this world we inhabit.