Partly cloudy this evening, then becoming cloudy after midnight. Low near 65F. Winds ESE at 5 to 10 mph..

Partly cloudy this evening, then becoming cloudy after midnight. Low near 65F. Winds ESE at 5 to 10 mph.

It is growing season here for tomatoes, but not in Florida.

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It is growing season here for tomatoes, but not in Florida.

“Every season is one of becoming, but not always one of blooming. Be gracious with your ever-evolving self.” — B. Oakman

This past May, John, my husband, and I were given nine tomato seedlings that our neighbor, Dianna, had started. John purchased special potting soil, and I carefully planted those seedlings into large gardening containers. They were my pet project this summer as I tended to them like a mother tends to a baby. From suckering them to fertilizing them at specific points in the summer to monitoring the moisture in the soil to determine whether I should water or not, I tried to be the best plant parent I could be.

However, I knew that in spite of my best efforts, Mother Nature had more control than I.

Nonetheless, John and I marveled over the plants’ first golden blooms. We counted the tiny, green orbs that first formed in place of the blossoms, and we celebrated as they grew bigger, and more petite tomatoes began to emerge. As their color gradually transformed from chartreuse to yellow-orange, and then gently evolved from orange-red to scarlet, our anticipation mounted for a plentiful harvest.

By the first week of August, we had a bounty of tomatoes. They weren’t large, but they were bursting with flavor — the perfect tangy blend of sweet, tart and acid. With our first pickings, I cut up fresh cucumber and tomato to add to shawarma-spiced chickpeas for me, and made bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwiches on homemade bread for John.

Throughout the week, there were salad plates topped with aromatic, zesty tomatoes alongside dinner, and veggie sticks and tomatoes in bowls for packed lunch. Oh, the ways we can, and do, enjoy tomatoes!

Last weekend, I was out picking more tomatoes, and I reflected on a conversation with my dad the previous week. He lives in Melbourne, Florida, about an hour or so east of Orlando. He and my bonus mom, Pam, have a fenced-in back yard that they have transformed into a tropical paradise. Vibrant plants that would never grow here thrive in their back yard as they continue to learn more about the growing seasons of Florida.

In that recent phone conversation, Dad and I discussed the plants they were currently trying to grow, and the ones they would soon plant, once the temperatures cooled and moderated.

He was eagerly anticipating growing tomatoes. He explained his plan to plant a couple of seedlings, then several weeks later, plant a couple more, then he’d plant another few about a month after that, and so on. Apparently, fall is the perfect time to plant tomatoes in Florida, and throughout the winter months, he gets to reap the harvest.

When I shared with him how well my tomato plants were producing, he bemoaned the fact he could not yet have a fresh garden tomato, but of course, encouraged John and me to enjoy our season while we could. He was looking forward to the season when he, too, could enjoy a fresh slice of tomato on a sandwich or chopped up in a salad.

As I reflected on this conversation while picking tomatoes, with each snip of my pruning shears, I was simultaneously filled with gratitude for each tender fruit, but I was also feeling a bit of sadness for the fact that I could not share these with Dad. Then, I reminded myself that he would be enjoying tomatoes in December, January, and February when our area will be chilling to rain, sleet, ice, and snow with not a single fresh tomato in sight.

That’s when it hit me: In the same way I can gather tomatoes in August and September, but Dad cannot until the winter months, we all have different growing seasons in life. I began to think about all the ways we, as part of our humanity, often compare our current position in life with that of others in similar circumstances, age range, or whatnot, and feel as if our situation/status falls short in comparison. Personally, I often think of dreams and hopes I still hold for the future, but due to life, many of those notions must be put on hold for the time being. However, the more I snipped tomatoes, the more I began to realize that perhaps instead of comparing, and thinking about where/what I think I should be doing, maybe I would be better benefitted to switch my focus to cultivating and nurturing those seeds of hope, and recognize that it’s not their growing season — yet.

“Be aware of what season you are in and give yourself the grace to be there.” — Kristen Dalton

Just as it is the growing season for me in southern Ohio, but not for my Dad in central Florida, the same is true for life. Our lives are filled with seasons, too. There are times when we must let go of notions and things that no longer serve us, like the trees do in fall, and the winds change the color of our lives with a flourish. Other times, our lives are filled with great spaces of dormancy as harsh and bitter winds send us into a blanket of darkness. Then, there are those moments in which we experience blooms of hope, sometimes even in the midst of a rainy season.

That is when the magic can occur.

Through our letting go and goodbyes, through those dark and latent times, and even through downpours of sorrows and grief, there remain within each of us, planted seeds of possibility. Those seeds have their own growing seasons, but each person has different seasons and different times for harvesting. It is our job to be aware of our season, cultivate our inner seeds, and trust that when the time is right, new growth will occur.

As it is wisely stated in the book of Ecclesiastes, “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens...He has made everything beautiful in its time.”

We must put our faith in our Creator, and rest in knowing that our hopes and dreams are indeed being cultivated by a force greater than us; and when the season is right, our season for growth, and ultimately harvest, will one day come into fruition.

Stephanie Hill is a freelance writer and a teacher at St. Joseph Catholic School in Huntington. She is also a lifelong resident of Lawrence County. She can be reached at hill992@zoominternet.net. Or you can check out her website, stephsimply.com.

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