Five years after beginning this garden program, who could imagine what garden class looks like now.
I have just come back from the garden amazed by Springwater students. I’m not surprised that they forgot my basic lesson on how deep to plant a seed or what a bulb is—these are yearly, even weekly, lessons I reiterate throughout their years as students and in more complex detail as they get older. What amazes me is that when my quick lesson and instruction are over and I send the students off to garden in their small groups, they perform their tasks with the grace and confidence of older, more experienced gardeners.
They may just now be learning how tulip bulbs become dormant and use gravitropism to grow in the spring—these new words perhaps a muddled bit of information now floating through their thoughts—but they take to their hand shovels comfortably, dig the right sized holes, think about design and placement, and carefully pack their bulbs in for the winter. They chatter quietly, keeping in mind that the garden is an ecosystem filled with many homes. They calmly explore the mole holes they dig into and discuss what else lives in them. They keep their eyes on the cherry tomatoes they long to munch on when the time is right. They go about their tasks as only seasoned gardeners do: looking for seasonal changes, acknowledging the egg sacks and insects sharing their space, focusing on doing slow, careful work—the mark of a good gardener.
This class, in particular, I have taught since they were in Kindergarten. They were the youngest students to remember the prickly thistle jungle our garden resembled. They have weeded, mulched, explored, and nibbled their way across every inch of the space. And five years later, they explore the garden as collaborators, scientists, and each—individually—a gardener.
What an incredible gift to say that they have gardened nearly their entire life. What will garden class be like three years from now, when they finish their last year at Springwater? What kinds of gardens will these children grow?
I have just come back from the garden amazed by Springwater students. I’m not surprised that they forgot my basic lesson on how deep to plant a seed or what a bulb is—these are yearly, even weekly, lessons I reiterate throughout their years as students and in more complex detail as they get older. What amazes me is that when my quick lesson and instruction are over and I send the students off to garden in their small groups, they perform their tasks with the grace and confidence of older, more experienced gardeners.
They may just now be learning how tulip bulbs become dormant and use gravitropism to grow in the spring—these new words perhaps a muddled bit of information now floating through their thoughts—but they take to their hand shovels comfortably, dig the right sized holes, think about design and placement, and carefully pack their bulbs in for the winter. They chatter quietly, keeping in mind that the garden is an ecosystem filled with many homes. They calmly explore the mole holes they dig into and discuss what else lives in them. They keep their eyes on the cherry tomatoes they long to munch on when the time is right. They go about their tasks as only seasoned gardeners do: looking for seasonal changes, acknowledging the egg sacks and insects sharing their space, focusing on doing slow, careful work—the mark of a good gardener.
This class, in particular, I have taught since they were in Kindergarten. They were the youngest students to remember the prickly thistle jungle our garden resembled. They have weeded, mulched, explored, and nibbled their way across every inch of the space. And five years later, they explore the garden as collaborators, scientists, and each—individually—a gardener.
What an incredible gift to say that they have gardened nearly their entire life. What will garden class be like three years from now, when they finish their last year at Springwater? What kinds of gardens will these children grow?