Control

By Derek Carr

I pry open the lid to the old pickle bucket that now contains a stew of withered watermelon rinds, lettuce, dirt, and some shredded Trader Joe’s bags. The subtly sweet smell of rotting fruit fills my nostrils, and joy fills my heart as I see the beginnings of my small compost operation. 

As I begin to churn the mixture, my heart sinks into my stomach and I am greeted once again by our mortal enemy. 

The European Earwig. 

Its exoskeleton and massive pincers that have drawn blood before, squirm amongst a cacophony of its friends through the brown gold of my compost. 

I, like a warrior of old, take a battle stance, and with a spade in one hand and my dog on his leash in the other, begin to chop and fling as many of the beasts as I can before they once again ruin our garden. 

We’ve been dealing with earwigs since the dawn of time. They particularly love the dahlia leaves that my wife has so carefully tended to. They surprisingly hadn’t touched the lettuce that volunteered its way into our plot this year, which filled me with hope. Until we harvested some and realized the earwigs must have a similar taste to us and don’t enjoy the harsh bitter flavor our sun-stressed romaine greeted us with. 

I’m not a bug person, and before marriage I wasn’t really a garden person either. But it’s not that far removed from my bones. Growing up, my grandparents had a huge garden in the backyard. They grew tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, and the most prized vegetable of them all, the zucchini. Which, I had not eaten as a vegetable until I was probably 17 years old. Instead, my grandmother would bake them into the most incredible loaves. My favorite was when despite not enjoying them herself, she would crush some walnuts and throw them in the bread. The perfect late summer treat. 

This summer I have fully given myself over to the current trend of the hyper-local, cottage core, compost-making, gardener aesthetic that seems to be on the rise on my side of the internet. Branding this as my “Outdoor Summer” to Yiska anytime we do anything outside, which only cements my video game oriented childhood.

But, I also think something deeper than a trend is happening to me. 

I’m losing control. 

The more time I’m in the garden, the more present I am to the reality of the way it works. To the order of things. I think I’m becoming a little naive again. And noticing the flowers and the birds a whole lot more too. 

Regardless of the strategies and methods we can try with our garden and the hours and hours of work that will be spent on our hands and knees, there’s still the chance that the earwigs eat the dahlias. Or the zinnias don’t bloom, or the tomatoes stop producing. Or the carrots dry out. 

A couple of weeks ago we took a trip up to New York, and while there I got to walk through my grandparents' garden. 15 years ago, there wouldn’t have been anything I would have wanted to do less. And now there isn’t anything I want to do more.

As my grandfather talked about his plants, he didn’t seem to rule over them. It seemed like there was a harmony in which he knew how to tend to them, and they knew exactly how to grow. Control wasn’t in the equation despite how weed-less his ground was. 

And just like every other year, zucchini bread will be made. And the birds will find food, and the flowers will be dressed. 

There is much to do in the garden, and in our homes, and at our jobs, and in our relationships. But in all of those places, control will choke you out like a weed. Or pinch you like an earwig. Do good work, be with people, and have faith—that this is the order of things.
I’m slowly surrendering myself to the chance or conditions for goodness. Bringing my cynicism to the altar. Delighting in the fragrance of the Lord and spreading butter on a warm slice of zucchini bread.