I wish I liked to garden. I wish the smell of soil and the feeling of bulbs in my hands brought me to a happy place, a place of peace and serenity.
Honestly, it just makes me angry.
What? I have to water you again? You need to be transplanted? You are under-watered or over-watered or so shriveled up that I can’t tell you used to be a fully functioning aloe plant? There are so many steps you have to take to keep something green alive. There’s the planting, the careful pulling apart of root systems, and the soil made from fox blood (seriously, you cannot make this up). Then the delicate act of watering, the muddy task of picking off potato bugs. The throwing away of whatever you’ve killed.
Why can’t it all be eating? I’m fully capable of eating cherry tomatoes, those luscious, seedy nuggets!
There are a lot of things we wish we liked to do. There are the things that everyone else seems to enjoy that we can’t put our heart into. Wouldn’t it be swell if we all liked to bake and put up beets? How about taking the dog for a walk or talking on the phone with telemarketers? My friends who enjoy running astound me, and I wish I were like them. My friends who “don’t like sugar” impress me, and I wish I were like them.
The fact is that sometimes what we wish we were is very different from what we are. And now that my job search is omnipresent, there are even more opportunities to wish I were somewhere else. My classmates are founding nonprofits and joining law firms, and I am most decidedly not. There are so many things about my life that are not as I want them to be, and it can be exhausting.
So I’m wishing I liked to garden, but I know I like eating. I wish I liked animals, but I know I like babies. Something is wrong here! I think that liking what you like, doing what you do-being who you are-should be enough. And the fact is, I just don’t like to garden.