I plant seeds of hope

Spring has sprung! Yesterday was the first short sleeve, Birkenstock wearing day of the year in Michigan. The snow is melting and the birds are singing. Soon the tulips will bloom and the trees will be bursting with bright green buds. I was able to soak up some much needed vitamin D on my second story apartment balcony. In my opinion, spring is the most exciting time of the year.

At this time last year, I was only about two months into my alcohol-free journey and struggling. For as long as I can remember spring has been greeted by Detroit Tigers baseball and an orange slice wedged into the first Oberon of the season. Spring, as wonderful as it is, still triggers memories of sitting on the back patio with an ice cold celebratory drink in hand.

Last year in an attempt to start a new sober tradition, I decided to plant a balcony garden. This 4’x9’ space became my own little jungle oasis. I grew cherry and Cherokee purple tomatoes, red, orange, yellow, and green bell peppers, banana peppers, jalapeños, pickling cucumbers, carrots, spinach, radishes, strawberries, mint, basil, catnip, and zinnias.

Each morning while my coffee brewed, I filled large watering cans and gave my precious plants a drink. I didn’t know it back then, but that garden allowed me to plant seeds of hope during a seemingly hopeless time. The garden gave me something to nurture before I could nurture myself.

When I first got sober I didn’t have a job or a driver’s license, but I had my garden. Drinking made me feel trapped; the garden allowed me to grow. Drinking kept me stuck in cycles of craving instant gratification; the garden taught me lessons about delayed gratification. Drinking made me resent folks who were outside enjoying the warm weather while I was hungover in bed; the garden welcomed me back out into the sunshine.

The garden gave me something to call my own. My own tradition. My own something to look forward to. My own calming space. Maybe all of us could benefit from celebrating patio season with a tiny garden (or just one indoor plant) instead of drinking. Maybe all of us could plant seeds of hope and watch them grow.

It might take a few years of practicing new traditions before I stop associating spring with drinking, and that’s okay. At least this year I am also craving seeds, growth, fresh blooms, and the smell of potting soil. At least this year I know there is immense, life-giving power to be found in a small patio garden.

I plant seeds of hope.