Planting Potatoes

I had an idea several years ago: write down everything that I could remember. Every childhood memory. All the school-year adventures. All the embarrassing teenage incidents. And even the victories and failures and triumphs and regrets of my adult life.

I never did it.

Procrastination is often fuelled by fear. Fear of failure. Fear of discomfort and pain. And even the fear of success with all the responsibilities attached to it. But maybe in this case the reason for not undertaking the memory-fest project was because it was dumb.

In the mundanity of my day-to-day life there are incidents and stories that arise, for good or ill, that deserve to be documented for further reflection or sharing or for their comedic value. I wish I had penned this story when it occurred many years ago:

For the reader who may not know, I grew up on a farm. My parents' farm has been – and remains to this day – a central gathering point for our family. And it was not uncommon for my siblings to drop off my nieces and nephews to spend a day or two or a week or more with my parents. The spring of 2001 was one such occasion (maybe it wasn’t 2001…maybe it was 2000 or 2002 or 2003…this is why I need to write these stories down when they take place).

Anyway, it was garden-planting season and my father and I set out to plant potatoes in the cool, black, freshly tilled earth. A few of my then-young nieces and nephews participated in the process as well. (They participated to the degree that the attention and ability of children aged five to eight allow.) The potatoes were successfully planted and as many gardeners recognize, there is not much that can be done until harvest other than watering, weeding, and hilling. The profound and mysterious mechanism of some ancient genetic algorithm engages when those seed potatoes are covered with soil. It is truly a wonder.

The children did not quite understand the patience required for the process of sowing and growing and reaping. The next day they ran to the house and exclaimed excitedly, “We found potatoes!” With earth-caked hands and gleeful faces, they proudly presented their prize. They had unearthed the garden. That afternoon my dad replanted the potatoes and in the fall we thankfully reaped a harvest.

Sowing and growing and reaping. It is a great mystery.

Consider this: Potatoes, stored in the right conditions, will last several months. They might sprout in the latter weeks but they will not produce anything and will eventually turn to mush in one’s storage cellar. But I am fascinated how – when surrendered to the cold, dark discomfort of moist earth – the once pristine seed (or tuber to be more precise), essentially rots and dies as part of the process that gives way to new growth and produces a multiplied harvest.

The warm comfort of a cellar will rot a potato. So too will the discomfort of cool soil. But only one condition will bring about more potatoes.

Procrastination is the comfortable cellar of my dreams, abilities, and talents.

An abundant life requires sacrifice. It requires effort in the face of laziness, risk instead of safety, and courage despite fear. This lesson needs to take root in my life: My mortal hands need to cede control of the things to which they clutch, and seed my talents, abilities, and dreams into the uncomfortable soil of life's uncertainty. In this discomfort, a profound and mysterious ancient algorithm engages with my being. Those sacrifices, I believe, multiply into a fruitful and wonder-full life.

As a final note, it should be clarified that when I write of an abundant and fruitful life, I am not writing of a life replete with material possessions. Rather in my observation, an abundant life is a life filled with a deeply-rooted sense of purpose and meaning. A life that moves toward the fulfillment of the genetic code of one’s being.

So then, go and plant and may such life also be yours.