This quote from the 1759 French novel Candide was first shared with me in the height of the pandemic. I needed it then, and it has appeared in my thoughts and conversations many times since.
There are quite a few interpretations of this quote. Perhaps the most alarming of which is the notion that we cannot change the world, so we should just worry about ourselves. With this, I firmly disagree. The most generous interpretation, and my favorite, is that we need not dwell only on life’s thorns, but also reserve attention and appreciation for the things we can nurture and enjoy.
As I write these words, I am sitting in a garden—an empty classroom. When this publication arrives on your doorstep, the school year will be well underway, but I am still excitedly preparing for the arrival of my students.
There are thorns in education. There is ongoing debate over school funding at the state level, discussions of private school vouchers, endless discourse over curriculum, libraries, bathrooms, lunches, budgets, equipment, class sizes, test scores, and anything else you can imagine. There is exhaustion. There is overwhelm. There is public scrutiny.
But, oh my goodness, there is a garden. A thriving, joyful, hilarious, hopeful and determined garden. We are diligently cultivating it, and it is growing beautifully.
As a music teacher, I have the privilege of teaching many of the same students year after year, and to play my small part in their growth is both hard work and an absolute honor and delight. There are, of course, thorns in my life and in the lives of each of my students. But here, in this room, I can tend our garden. I can strive to make sure every child belongs, every child is safe, every child has fun, and every child makes music. They will bloom and blossom beyond my imagination, as they always do.
My garden is my mind, body and spirit. My garden is my home, my husband and our dog. My garden is an elementary school music classroom. My garden is found in meaningful relationships with family and friends. My garden is my community.
I do love the imagery of a garden. Some gardens may provide sustenance, others a stunning view or peaceful walk. But no garden comes to be useful, beautiful or healthy on its own. A garden requires hard work, patience and grace.
Cultivation is work. It is therapy and exercise. It is household chores and sticking to a budget. It is compromise. It is showing up for my students every day. It is putting myself in the shoes of others. It is paying attention to local issues and elections, not just presidential ones.
Cultivation is sometimes easier said than done, isn’t it? It demands pause. A zooming in of sorts. Does cultivation only mean putting forth great effort? I don’t think so. I think cultivation includes rest, gratitude and a little silliness, too. A garden needs to be dug and weeded, but it also needs time, sunlight and water. Some avid gardeners say plants respond when we sing to them. I choose to believe that.
Some days, tending my garden means an impromptu dance party with my students. For some, it means abandoning the day’s agenda to play a game with their kids. It might mean leaving the dishes in the sink to have a phone call with your mom. A long overdue date night is probably more important than a work email, and a nap might do more good than folding that laundry. If you’re me, that laundry has probably been in the dryer a few days anyway.
Tending a garden is creating something just for the sake of creating it. It is a long walk, a good cuddle, a favorite song, a slice of pie. It is shared laughter, and it is a thank you card. A quick text that reads “thinking of you.” And maybe, just maybe, all of our gardening means we will be able to handle the thorns with a bit more ease.
In this age of social media, 24-hour news cycles, and constant access to all of it in our pockets, it is so very easy to become overwhelmed with the world at large and all its worries. Life has always been, and I imagine always will be, bristling with thorns.
May we always remember to tend our gardens.
