A Year in Pandemic
Monica J. Casper
When we launched Gardening Through Grief in 2020, with a Call for Submissions focused on “Pandemic,” we did not realize that a full year later, we would still be living in pandemic. Nor did we know that more than half a million people in the U.S. would die – with so many of these deaths preventable, had we experienced better leadership. Under the previous presidential administration, testing was spotty; public health officials were muzzled or ignored; and the vaccine rollout was disastrous, with devastating inequities. It is not lost on us that people of color have been disproportionately impacted by COVID deaths, nor that working women have taken the most significant economic hit with massive job losses.
In 2021, though we have a new presidential administration in place – one that is prioritizing saving lives, including more aggressive vaccine distribution – the U.S. is playing catch-up. We are trying to get enough folks vaccinated to potentially end this pandemic, but efforts have been hampered by a faulty and uneven rollout, misinformation, and anti-vaccine propaganda. Many of us are still housebound, unless we are essential workers; mental health consequences have been horrific, with a rise in suicide rates, especially among teens and young adults; and loneliness is rampant. A year in, our viral “emergency” has become a chronic illness – in part, because it was not treated as an emergency by those in power.
I moved from my beloved home in Tucson to San Diego, to begin a new job – an odd life change during a pandemic, but one that was already in the works. I’m learning a new ecology, new native plant species, and different growing seasons—inhabiting a new life, in fact. And, I’m mourning the loss of my old life in the Sonoran Desert and missing my firstborn daughter, Macy, who remained in Tucson to begin college. I’m learning to “nest” anew while simultaneously coping with half empty nest syndrome. Planting more than thirty native species (mostly trees and bushes) on our half-acre in Southern California has been one of the few moments of unbridled joy during this major, stressful transition.
Reading through the submissions for our first issue, months into the pandemic, we found ourselves saddened, but also hopeful and inspired. Each story (in both words and images) is about relationships – with other people, with ourselves, and with the Earth. These relationships profoundly shape our orientation to the environment. Loss brings growth, even if we’re not quite ready to grow. Growing mediates loss, but sometimes, just barely. The Earth and its inhabitants – human and nonhuman – share an existence. To be reminded of this mutuality, especially the toll humans can take and the beauty we can make with/in Nature, is to be reminded of our ecological place, alongside and not at the center of it all.
Taylor Miller focuses on the beautiful Sonoran Desert, her place in it, and the challenges and joys of mothering a new baby-now-toddler. Her photographs and accompanying essay invite us to reflect on time and the unfolding of seasons. Miller writes of “meditating with the low desert ecology” as a form of attention, one that offers respite from sheltering-in-place and also important lessons in mothering.
Amy Farrell writes of her own mother, including time spent away from a neglected garden in favor of time spent with a beloved human. After her mother’s death, the garden struggles, until Farrell is able to attend to it with love and care. Gardening becomes a space for her to reconnect with her mother, and to find some happiness amidst the pandemic and racial injustice. This essay reminds us that love is all around us, including in the dirt. And that love is messy, just like gardening.
After buying her own home, Pamela Jackson builds a garden out of steep landscape and hard labor, losing herself (and her anxiety) in the soil. With the pandemic, she repurposes her garden to create a food supply, hand-crafting beds after perilous trips to the gardening store. She aims for self-sufficiency, but learns there is too much acid in the manure. As she puts it, “2020 shit in my soil.” Yet, she perseveres, moving from panic-gardening back to a more peaceful enterprise, finding solace in the soil.
Pat Struck reflects on her tree-planting frenzy following the death of her husband of 36 years. She found relief, and an outlet for grief, in the hard work of putting twenty-six new trees into the ground, largely on her own. She eventually sold that house, with its backyard forest and memories. In the midst of pandemic and in the scorching heat of a Tucson summer in 2020, she redirected her efforts to an indoor atrium, where she attempts to nurture bromeliads and anthuriums. She invites others to care for pets and plants, to remain active and stave off pandemic loneliness. As she writes, “Hands in the dirt means faith in the future.”
Last, Maureen Reilly’s video and essay highlight the importance of community, especially during trouble. What to do when people cannot visit their favorite nurseries, gardens, and neighbors? Repurpose media – in this case, video – to bring gardens and neighbors to the people! On the Key Peninsula, with a custom of plant and flower exchanges, isolation grieved the community. The Mustard Seed Project responded to this collective grief with “Spring on the KP,” which has brought joy and optimism to community members, who are reminded of the pleasures of gardening.
May you find some peace, respite, and inspiration in these offerings. And may you be safe and well as we continue to coexist in pandemic.
In 2021, though we have a new presidential administration in place – one that is prioritizing saving lives, including more aggressive vaccine distribution – the U.S. is playing catch-up. We are trying to get enough folks vaccinated to potentially end this pandemic, but efforts have been hampered by a faulty and uneven rollout, misinformation, and anti-vaccine propaganda. Many of us are still housebound, unless we are essential workers; mental health consequences have been horrific, with a rise in suicide rates, especially among teens and young adults; and loneliness is rampant. A year in, our viral “emergency” has become a chronic illness – in part, because it was not treated as an emergency by those in power.
I moved from my beloved home in Tucson to San Diego, to begin a new job – an odd life change during a pandemic, but one that was already in the works. I’m learning a new ecology, new native plant species, and different growing seasons—inhabiting a new life, in fact. And, I’m mourning the loss of my old life in the Sonoran Desert and missing my firstborn daughter, Macy, who remained in Tucson to begin college. I’m learning to “nest” anew while simultaneously coping with half empty nest syndrome. Planting more than thirty native species (mostly trees and bushes) on our half-acre in Southern California has been one of the few moments of unbridled joy during this major, stressful transition.
Reading through the submissions for our first issue, months into the pandemic, we found ourselves saddened, but also hopeful and inspired. Each story (in both words and images) is about relationships – with other people, with ourselves, and with the Earth. These relationships profoundly shape our orientation to the environment. Loss brings growth, even if we’re not quite ready to grow. Growing mediates loss, but sometimes, just barely. The Earth and its inhabitants – human and nonhuman – share an existence. To be reminded of this mutuality, especially the toll humans can take and the beauty we can make with/in Nature, is to be reminded of our ecological place, alongside and not at the center of it all.
Taylor Miller focuses on the beautiful Sonoran Desert, her place in it, and the challenges and joys of mothering a new baby-now-toddler. Her photographs and accompanying essay invite us to reflect on time and the unfolding of seasons. Miller writes of “meditating with the low desert ecology” as a form of attention, one that offers respite from sheltering-in-place and also important lessons in mothering.
Amy Farrell writes of her own mother, including time spent away from a neglected garden in favor of time spent with a beloved human. After her mother’s death, the garden struggles, until Farrell is able to attend to it with love and care. Gardening becomes a space for her to reconnect with her mother, and to find some happiness amidst the pandemic and racial injustice. This essay reminds us that love is all around us, including in the dirt. And that love is messy, just like gardening.
After buying her own home, Pamela Jackson builds a garden out of steep landscape and hard labor, losing herself (and her anxiety) in the soil. With the pandemic, she repurposes her garden to create a food supply, hand-crafting beds after perilous trips to the gardening store. She aims for self-sufficiency, but learns there is too much acid in the manure. As she puts it, “2020 shit in my soil.” Yet, she perseveres, moving from panic-gardening back to a more peaceful enterprise, finding solace in the soil.
Pat Struck reflects on her tree-planting frenzy following the death of her husband of 36 years. She found relief, and an outlet for grief, in the hard work of putting twenty-six new trees into the ground, largely on her own. She eventually sold that house, with its backyard forest and memories. In the midst of pandemic and in the scorching heat of a Tucson summer in 2020, she redirected her efforts to an indoor atrium, where she attempts to nurture bromeliads and anthuriums. She invites others to care for pets and plants, to remain active and stave off pandemic loneliness. As she writes, “Hands in the dirt means faith in the future.”
Last, Maureen Reilly’s video and essay highlight the importance of community, especially during trouble. What to do when people cannot visit their favorite nurseries, gardens, and neighbors? Repurpose media – in this case, video – to bring gardens and neighbors to the people! On the Key Peninsula, with a custom of plant and flower exchanges, isolation grieved the community. The Mustard Seed Project responded to this collective grief with “Spring on the KP,” which has brought joy and optimism to community members, who are reminded of the pleasures of gardening.
May you find some peace, respite, and inspiration in these offerings. And may you be safe and well as we continue to coexist in pandemic.