"If you don't want it there, it's a weed," my gardening mentor (aka, my husband’s aunt) told me as we pruned and plowed our way through my tragically under-attended landscaping. It was not only great gardening advice, but in fact quite a good day-to-day reminder. I had never been one to brag about a green thumb. In fact, I have not once even considered bragging about my thumb at all! But there I was, in the comfortable Wisconsin June sun, digging through dirt like I owned the place. (I do, in fact, own the place.)

As the sun thoughtlessly moved above us, the original concept of the portion of land came together. Carefully planted puzzle pieces all placed in the earth by the previous owners as meticulous conversation starters for those who happened to inquire. The plans of a story told in a past life happily revealing its pages to me with each pull of a rake. An underestimated little patch of earth patiently waiting to prove itself worthy of far more than a fleeting glance.

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In my humble and sometimes catastrophically romanticized opinion, isn't it better to put the roots in some soil and see what happens? 

SARAH JAYNE JOHNSON

At one point, I recognized three glum and somewhat pathetic looking pieces of green as weathered and whimpering tomato plants. It was then I remembered seeing the blooming plant the previous summer when we first got the house. To say it was lush with fruit would surely hyperbolize the situation, but there had been noticeable cherry tomatoes ripe for the picking. As I stared at the tired looking leaves, I wondered if that previous summer had been its peak – its roots noticeably absent from the earth and its tired leaves all but wilted. However I am nothing if not slightly delusional and starved for success, so I decided to take action.

“I think I’m going to rehabilitate this tomato plant!” I exclaimed to my somewhat skeptical yet supportive (out of fear) husband, “We’ll have a bounty in no time!” I found an unused pot nearby and got to work, my in-law mentor giving me much needed and quietly cautious optimism about the situation. “Do you think it will help if I sing to it?!” I asked my landscaping companions. The question caused concerned gazes and furrowed brows, and thus I had my answer – of course it would!

Our day in the dirt came to a close, and as we looked over a job well done, I braced myself for the oncoming weeks of uncertainty. The big plan for impressive results also paved the way for potential disappointment and, let’s face it, a semi-smug pat on the shoulder from that same supportive spouse. How do I realize that realistic expectations and unhinged optimism must live as sisters in even the most uncertain of circumstances? Whether it’s the prospect of a freshly picked tomato or the letdown of a canceled flight or a car repair, we have no harness on the mishaps life tends to deal out. In my humble and sometimes catastrophically romanticized opinion, isn’t it better to put the roots in some soil and see what happens? If nothing grows on the vines, does it take away from the time you spent nurturing them? Maybe part of creating a garden worth talking about is having part of the discussion be the things that didn’t work out, and why that’s OK.

Weeks later and I still have no tomatoes, but the vines are improving every day and (despite what everybody says) I really do think the singing is helping. The roots are resting happily in fresh soil and while leaves still have a way to go, their posture is far more impressive than it once was. Looking at them now I remind myself that even if they remain exactly as they are, even if they are just tomato-less vines until they eventually return back to the earth, they were still mine to once have high hopes for. They are my perfectly potted reminder that some years are a bountiful harvest, and some years are solely for the soul to rest and rehabilitate. And how lucky am I that for a pocket of time, I got to take pride in the possibility of something far greater than the end result? I think maybe that is the greatest garden of all.