Ecosystemic lessons from a small patch of green

A year ago I moved house in Delft. At that time, mainly excited about the new flatmates and extra space, I didn’t expect the garden to worm its way into my heart the way it did.

Now, every time I get home and walk towards the door, I look sideways like a proud plant mother. There they are – amongst other plants – the bright green lettuces, the sturdy tomatoes, the baby cauliflower somehow still alive, and the yellowing bean plants – now in a bit of an existential crisis after giving birth to their first beans. They all greet me and I greet them back as I enter my house.

Lately, my sense of home and my search for roots have been taking on new meanings. This garden especially is teaching me so much that I am not even waiting for crops. There is a deep commitment in caring for a garden that is, obviously, strictly rooted in a place. I can’t just leave for weeks or move around carelessly because I feel a responsibility toward this life that I seeded in the earth.

But the commitment is not only logistical – it’s very emotional. The more I care for it, the more I want to care for it. The more time I spend transplanting each tiny plant in my hands, the more I look at them, feel them and let my fingers get bathed in dirt, the more love I feel for each plant. And the more love I feel, the more care I want to give.

This care cycle could also extend towards other careful activities: cooking, helping a friend

It is a virtuous cycle of attention and affection that, I intuit, breaks with fast paced and efficiency-driven daily life. This care cycle that enriches gardening could also extend towards other careful activities: cooking, helping a friend, or concern for the environment around us and others.

Slow cycles of care like these and being attuned to each plant starts to reveal other lessons too: I am often witnessing the wonders of ecosystemic relationships.

For example, one day, my bean plants appeared full of tiny invaders, aphids, apparently. I saw my gardening initiatives crushed in my miserable-looking bean plants. Besides the aphids, I spotted strange, spiny dragon-shaped insects about 10 times the size of the aphids.

Thanks to the internet and image recognition – hurray? – I learned that these dragon creatures were ladybird larvae. Who knew that ladybirds had a teenage phase? I also learned that they are my greatest allies, while adults, but even more so in their larvae stage. They love nothing more than a good aphid feast. Now my garden is full of adult ladybirds, my beans are healthy, and new birds visit, attracted by ladybird snacks. A miniature cycle of ecological regulation slowly and infinitely playing out just outside my window. Never perfect and never finished.

Gardening helps me reflect on the need for living a non-fast-paced or tightly scheduled life, while I intensely pull up weeds or wake up to the sometimes slow working of this ecosystem that feels absurdly beautiful to watch, to work with and to learn from.