Life is restricted right now, painfully so. We’ve been restricted from celebrating rites of passage: graduations, ordinations, weddings, funerals. We’ve been restricted from family and beloved friends, restricted from work, restricted from travel, restricted from gathering, restricted from worship. With each passing day, with each new sacrifice small or large, the restrictions begin to feel like constrictions, closing in around us, making it hard to move, hard to breathe.
Tomato Buckets, Spring 2020
So I dwell on the humble tomato. Even when I’ve had a real garden bed, I’ve chosen to grow tomatoes in five-gallon buckets. In a bucket, a tomato plant’s roots are restricted, and it forces the plant to put its energy into growing upward and outward. The stress of restriction also causes the plant to flower earlier and more often: because the plant is afraid it may die, it rushes to fulfill its purpose, which is to bear as much fruit as possible.
Perhaps growing tomatoes in a bucket is cruel, but it’s worth noting that I, as gardener, actually provide the plant with everything the plant needs. The plants are watered, every day, enough to soak the entire root system. The plants are fertilized, providing enough nutrients to supply the limited root network with all it needs. When in danger from frost, wind or hail, the whole bucket can be moved to a sheltered location, a luxury that the garden bed doesn’t afford. Despite the stress of restriction, a well-tended tomato plant in a bucket thrives in an environment of sufficiency.
My life is a bucket. My home, a bucket. My work, a bucket. My family, a bucket. My vows, my promises, my obligations, a bucket. My grief, my shattered expectations, a bucket. Can I recognize that there is enough here? Can I trust that I have all I need to bear fruit? Can I grow upward and outward, reaching toward the sky, basking in the light that feeds me, is enough for me, that carries me towards my own fulfillment? Can my restrictions set me free?