On growing, grieving, and moving on
A widow finds parallels in gardening and dealing with loss
Abahay kubo with plenty of hanging plants in the window sills and vegetables around the yard was my childhood dream. Being born and raised in the farm largely shaped my dreams and values.
My house stands in the middle of an open land where tall grasses and underbrush proliferate. Carabao, cow, and goat owners found the area a rich pastureland and let loose their animals to freely graze around.
Moving to this place eight years ago was quite a challenge. The hardy underbrush and grasses had roots deeply anchored into the ground. Since it was a former cornfield, the soil though was rich and black. While the house was still under construction, I planted fruit tree saplings and fenced the boundary with interlink chain to keep the animals away. The orchids, anthuriums, and green plants accumulated through the years of hopping from one boarding house to the next finally found their permanent place in this area. They occupy a place in the front yard. As an afterthought, I asked the carpenter to make a concrete box behind the house for biodegradable wastes.
Settling in was difficult in a barely habitable house. The amihan season, a gusting dry wind, was cruel to the plants. The piped connection, however, made our life easier, particularly for the plants, which were getting acclimatized to the new environment.
We three girls cleared the thighhigh grasses behind the house. This spot was intended for vegetables, some trees, and possible future expansion, hence twice bigger than the front yard. Sadly, our puny strength was no match against the stubborn grasses, which wouldn’t seem to let go of their territory. No sooner had we barely cleared a bigger area than the grasses would again invade the patch we originally cleared. We were all eight-to-five persons, so the next time we cleared another patch was five days after. It was a losing battle.
Then a thought struck—to gradually plant the cleared area so that instead of grasses, vegetables would grow. I planted squash and melons, creepers so they freely crawl around to deter the growth of grasses. Soon, other vegetables followed. The efforts we invested gradually reaped returns.
One week after we moved into the house, my husband came home from overseas work gravely sick. Four months into our transfer, I marked our wedding anniversary by planting 26 hills of dragon fruits, which I staked on kakawate posts. Each dragon fruit row became blocks into which I divided the whole backyard.
At the onset of summer, I asked some grade school boys to gather cow and carabao dung, which cost ₱8 per cement sack. Since the surrounding was used as pastureland, gathering two dozen sacks took less than half a day, which we dumped into the concrete box.
We stepped and jumped on the heap to tamper it. Then I poured waste water regularly to soften the board-stiff manure. Cut grasses, kitchen wastes, table scraps, fruit peelings, and vegetable cuttings all went into the box behind the house. Early on, I already segregated my household wastes and learned to conserve water.
When the rains started, the plots were ready. The compost was ready. My hands were full of gardening. The once wild and grass-covered backyard was finally conquered! Thankfully, a male househelp who also grew up in the farm came at this crucial time. He grew tomatoes, pechay, and radish, much to my delight. His knowledge and experience greatly contributed to the productivity of our garden.
I mulched plots of growing vegetables to keep moisture, especially during summer. The dragon fruits were fertilized with dried finely crushed egg shells, which I gathered from the “cake house” owned by the city government. As first crop, I covered the whole area with peanuts. Then other vegetables came later on. The season of planting and harvesting was invigorating. A year later, we harvested the few first dragon fruits. My husband tasted the fruit I planted for him. Besides the fresh and organic food from the backyard, the extra harvest provided income, which helped pay for water and power bills. I learned to be entrepreneurial.
In the house, since we are more into fruits and vegetables rather than bread and processed foods, we have less garbage to dispose.
Caring for a sick husband mostly absorbed my energies. The toll of an eight-to-five office job, and fund sourcing for his twice-a-week dialysis seemed to have drained all my strength and sanity. Apart from the Lord’s comfort and sustenance, I found solace among the growing vegetables around the house and the blooming flowers in the front yard. They absorbed my stresses. This was perhaps why they were robust and lush. I became sensitive to the nuances of nature as each ebb and flow directly affected the plants.
Seven years since my husband passed away, my life continues with gardening, giving me inspiration. The energy I spent caring for my husband is now directed to caring for plants. The intensity and passion are still there, only the recipient changed. I also discovered a lot of parallels in life and gardening. If I am negligent, the plants are attacked by insects, overgrown by weeds, dry up, and become useless, in the same manner that I am emotionally crippled if I give in to self-pity, grief, and negativity.
Now God has more than granted my childhood dreams. Though my house is not a typical bahay kubo, it has wide windows. The plants, which supposedly should be planted on wide window sills, are scattered around the yard in their own niches, which give me comfort, solace, and inspiration.
The orchids, anthuriums, and green plants accumulated through the years of hopping from one boarding house to the next finally found their permanent place in this area.