The Letter

Or "When I realized not everything had to be an obligation"

I’d gotten used to the rhythm of no. Each year I’d submit the request for a community garden plot, and there’d be a cycle of “we’ve received your request” and “we’re reviewing your request” and “all requests will be decided by the end of February.”

And then I’d get another communication saying, “Please apply again next year.”

Portland’s community garden plots were hard-won, desirable things and I’d been vying for one for three years. I’m ashamed to say that, several years ago, I got one and swiftly said, ‘mmmm on second thought, no thanks.” In retrospect I can’t believe I did that, but as wife and mother sharing all the duties of raising a grade-school kid, as well as running my own corporate training consultancy - not to mention being a person with absolutely zero knowledge of gardening (and, truth be told, a bit of resistance to anything to do with dirt/gardening work altogether), it seemed best to let it go.

But fast forward to 2024 and while it was just starting to become clear the nation might actually be in danger of heading off a cliff, I started to think about the fact that my kid would be graduating high school in a few years and perhaps I might start thinking about looking beyond my business. I didn’t quite think then the world would be crashing in quite this form or that we would be told we better start fending for ourselves. I’d long known that our house, a split-level midcentury tucked in under towering Douglas Firs intent on shading us from all sunlight, would never be the site of a home garden. But as we inched into 2025 and I got yet another “please apply again next year” letter, the Portland community garden system started to look more than desirable. It started to feel necessary.

So it was with the excitement of a teenager reading their college acceptance letter that a few months ago I read “Congratulations! We have a community garden plot available for you….”

I actually think I may have yelled out “Oh my god” to no one in particular. Surely had I been recording myself for Instagram, I’d have jumped up and down and hugged everyone around me and started crying. But there was no one there and my “oh my god” was more of a muttered oath to the cat, while I considered what this meant.

It meant I’d have to, you know, garden.

I’d have to plant things. In the ground. And then dig them up and clean them off and feed them to my family who would not want to eat them. Jesus each one of those steps involved about ten other steps on their own and each of them sounded exhausting.

And there it was. Exhaustion. The question wasn’t whether to take the plot. Or to garden. The question was whether I was going to confront the question that I’d been dancing around the last few years: Was I going to continue let myself stay lazy.

Because I’d used exhaustion as an excuse to try to do nothing for quite a while. While I’d stayed plenty busy through my kiddo’s younger years, as he’d gotten older and my business had slowed, I’d gratefully slowed into an easier lifestyle. After years of 70+-hour weeks and nonstop go-go-go schedules, I’d sunken into the couch with an ease that surprised me. And let me assure you, there’s no guilt there. I needed and deserved that break. But I also felt myself starting to decline everything. I started to feel a desire to hope that an outing would be canceled – one that went beyond the typical “Introvert’s Delight” at a night spent alone. I found myself adopting my own rhythm of ‘no’ for so many things. I said no to the family bike ride and no to the walk that felt a little too long. Everything felt like an obligation. I’d had enough experience with depression in my adopted family to know that’s not what I was experiencing, thankfully. But I also felt that I was letting life slip me by with an excuse of feeling tired by all the obligations I’d taken on. It felt easier to just look at the choices in front of me and say a kind thank you, but no.

The garden required the opposite of no. It wasn’t anything external to me. It was an internal yes that needed to be grounded in honesty. It would require near-daily attention. It would require thought and consideration. I realized slowly that saying yes would mean seeing the garden through the lens not of obligation but through the lens of care. I would not be obligated to this garden; I would be taking *care* of this garden. Not because I had to, but because I chose to.

And so just like that, I chose yes.