In my experience there are two classifications ofgarden: the on-purpose garden and the accidentalgarden.

I have lived in this place for just a year now. Notnearly enough time for it to know me well enough totrust its deeper mysteries to me. But in a year onecan catch the occasional transitory glimpse. Onerevelation per season seems to be the rule of trustwritten in the history of place.

The summer surprise, aside from the banks of orangeday lilies — which, while perky enough, are not muchof a surprise — no, the real surprise was the wildblack raspberries. They called to me one morning whileI was on my way up the lane to collect the mail. Theirraspberry redness glinted in the oblique light fallingthrough thickening branches. My first gustatoryresponse — yuuummm — turned to a eeuuww when I tastedthe deceptively glowing fruit. Patience taught me towait. A few days later, the ruby red berries hadripened to a dark wine, almost black, colour andbreakfast became a cause for celebration.

As I walked back down the path, one morning,carefully bearing a bowl of cardboard textured fibre(the mainstay of the middle-aged morning) topped withthe precious fruit, Brad, who was doing some work onthe house said, “You look like Euell Gibbons.” Quicklyrealizing the total tactlessness of this spontaneousexpression of enthusiasm, he backtracked. “No. Youdon’t look like Euell Gibbons. Well, you know what Imean.”

I knew what he meant. Like the man who taught ageneration to stalk the wild asparagus, and allthe other accidental treasures of nature, I hadhappened on some of her bounty. In a few short weeksthe wild raspberry season was done. I am left with thememory and the anticipation of next spring.

Mid-spring I had been hit full on by a blazingblossom storm. A very old apple tree, masked byvarious spindly oaks, pines and brush, made itselfknown in this spectacular, if unseasonable, flurry ofblinding whiteness. I have since read up on thepruning of old apple trees and hope to encourage abounty of edible apples next fall.

This is what I mean by the accidental garden. It is,of course, only accidental to me. To the originalpioneer/gardener who planted, or transplanted thecuttings, it was presumably an act of somedeliberation and optimism — or the work of the forcesof nature that married soil, sprout and dream offruition.

The on-purpose garden is a sturdily rabbit-proofed,fenced area that sits in full light. Last year’sspectacular, and never-bloody-ending supply of greenbeans, led to the decision to forego beans this yearin favour of zucchinis. I don’t know what I wasthinking. Eight tiny seeds, I swear was all that wentinto the ground. Luckily only two made it to plantsize.

Now, in defense of the zucchini, I have to say it’s aversatile vegetable. Plucked straight from the garden,sliced, drizzled with a little olive oil and poppedonto a hot grill, it’s delicious. It even has flavour.Melted into a tantalizing mélange of eggplant, garlicand fresh tomatoes, it adds bulk and a certain je nesais quoi (i.e. I don’t know what) to ratatouille.

However, zucchini shares in some of the mystical timeproperties, which have also attached themselves toSaturday afternoons. You know the one. It’s Saturday.You look at the clock. It is noon. You look again twominutes later. It is four o’clock. You have enteredthe vortex. You have just lost four hours of yourlife. Where did they go? No one knows the answer tothis question.

With the zucchini, you look one day and there is atiny little embryo zucchini nestled amongst the giantleaves. Its exuberant yellow flower is still intact.You look the next day. There are six giant zucchinisthat somehow exploded into Guinness-record sizedvegetables — overnight! I understand it is the samewith children. You begin the mad search for recipesthat require stuffing these giant marrows — thezucchinis I mean. Or, well, maybe this is also true ofteenagers.

Like a thing possessed, the two plants are soonthrowing off bushel baskets of produce. Every cookbookever written is scoured for one single recipe, whichrequires more than ½ cup of chopped zucchini. You can’tcompost them for fear of infecting gardens yet unmade,unplanted, unplanned with a plague of the giant fecundplants. In a world in which so many are going hungryyou can’t just trash them. There are, of course, theneighbours. But I don’t really know them. Can I riskshifting produce — however, organic — ontounsuspecting strangers?

In a world where the horrors neighbour can inflict onneighbour seem to be limitless in its cruelty, itmight be worth considering?

We struggle to come to some meaning for all thesuffering people. Suffering, the sages tell us, can bethe road to compassion. It is the map that leads us toconnect with others. Our own suffering is givenmeaning, depth and hope, by shining its blinding lighton our shared humanity. We have all suffered somethinghuman.

In light of this wisdom, I personally am choosing thezucchini over suffering. Surprised and nourished bythe accidental garden, the on-purpose garden hasprovided enough bounty to drive me forth to meet myfellow humans. I can see now how the humble, yetprolific zucchini, has the power to transformstrangers into friends, and friends into dinnerguests.

Lynda Weston

Lynda Weston is spiritual care coordinator for a long term care facility and a freelance writer/editor living in Stratford Ontario. In a past life she was theatre critic for the Stratford Beacon...