Growing up, I laughed at the thought of working in any garden.
I believed that I possessed a brown thumb.
Yet, the earliest lesson I remember from my teacher happened in second grade. Ironically, that was year I was officially diagnosed with attention deficit disorder due to my micro attention span.
Mrs. Rewis was a wonderful teacher, and the best that I had while attending Plain Elementary in Greenville. She read The Boxcar Children. One day, she put small seedlings in different parts of her classroom to compare how they would or would not grow. One plant was placed in a cabinet. Then she put vaseline on the leaves of another one, and a third next to the window I always looked out of rather than completing worksheets. A few days later, we planted our own, and put them next to the window, too.
But I did not stay a brown thumb.
Because of my daughter, Corrie, I grew. Due to Corrie, I learned new hobbies to enrich my life rather than feel I’ve lost myself forever. With the spiritual presence of Corrie, I stretched my arms and mind to explore ventures that would and will keep her memory and life expand beyond her 5 1/2 years on this Earth.
Today, as I share pictures and thoughts of her gardens, and consider how proud I am of myself for learning how to split lily bulbs; I’m reminded not of her loss, but her sense of humor and mischief.
On the evening before she died, Corrie asked me for one ice cream sandwich. I said, “Yes,” since she’d helped me with dinner and washing dishes. She had one as she and I watched the sixth Harry Potter movie together. Later, she went downstairs and asked her Dad for one. My husband said, “Have you had one yet?”
Corrie shook her head in that cute way of hers, and said, “No.”
My husband, John, allowed Corrie to retrieve a second ice cream sandwich, unaware she’d already had one.
After Corrie died, John and I compared notes. Between our shock, anger and tears, we laughed even if for only a few seconds. We laughed again after I discovered that Corrie hadn’t really cleaned her room as thoroughly as I’d thought. She’d shoved most of her toys and some clothes below her bed.
Through working in Corrie’s gardens yesterday, I laughed thinking of how she got me again almost three years later. She used to follow me on the paths John had mown around the farm for me to walk, or the other places where there were flowers.
Corrie would pick them. She’d say, “Mommy, look at these flowers … You’re not really looking,” or “Mommy, slow down, and look at this flower. I have to put it in your hair.” I was always in a hurry to complete a workout or do the next thing on my list.
But Corrie got me.
Corrie has gotten me to stop and look at the flowers. She’s made me become a gardener when before I’d walk on by. She’s caused my micro attention span to slow down, and think about what I want to plant.
While there is a part of me that died with Corrie, it doesn’t mean my soul can’t take on new life. Because of Corrie, I picked up soil and a shovel.
Because of Corrie, I’m planning for multiple gardens across the farm. I’m more aware of the environment with the purpose of plants that attract butterflies, hummingbirds and bees.
Due to Corrie, I grew in my grief, and in my daughter’s gardens, our relationship as mother and daughter continues to grow.
Corrie's Season 