Amy Middleton Loves New York

I’ve been trying to grow an apartment garden for the better part of 2008–partly for fun, mostly to provide a foundation for my hopes of eventually cultivating a sustainable garden. The basil grows steadily, the noble attempt to rescue dying strawberries never stood much of a chance. Potted lemon and lime trees (mutant leaves jetting from awkward branches) fight for sunlight with a tomato plant tied to the window, towering above them. None of them bear fruit. For a while it served as a disturbing metaphor for my life; in spite of my desire, attention, diligence, and labors, my garden was barren. My personal law of the harvest was a broken one.

What do you do when all you want to do in life is to produce fruit, and you are not in the position to do so, and you have no evidence that suggests you will ever be capable of doing so? For as frustrating as it is, you become humbled and grateful for the littlest of wins, the tenderest of mercies. Had it not been for the desperateness of the situation, I may have been disappointed in my meager harvest of one small tomato. Instead, it serves as a small miracle, proving that there is cause to hope and even rejoice, and reminding me that life finds a way.