Judy Karin: But the zucchini, of course, will be fine. 

Lately my attention span, never particularly long, has shrunk to roughly the same length as that of a puppy. Whether I can blame this on the stress of the pandemic or not, I can’t say for sure. I just finished jigsaw puzzle #16. The first 15 I powered through, but this one, begun after a long puzzle-free month, took much longer.

Back in March, in a show of support for our local independent bookstore, I bought a big stack of books I’d been wanting to read. I read three of them in the first month and got partway through a fourth. I’m currently “in the middle of” a few, but I just can’t seem to read more than a couple pages at a time now.

There’s work, of course – lots of little details requiring my attention to keep our Melton School running. But a list of tasks that I thought would require one good long day has taken two weeks to complete, and I can’t really account for the rest of the time. I hear from others that they’re having the same trouble: no attention span, big chunks of time lost. Maybe there’s some small comfort in the fact that it’s not just me.

I planted my garden back in…May? Or maybe early June? Nothing fancy: Two kinds of tomatoes, some little butter lettuces, sugar snap peas, beautiful purple string beans, kale (my obligatory offering to appease the cabbage moth caterpillars), and zucchini.

Every morning, I wander into the back yard in my pajamas. The dog frequently comes along, to whimper through the fence at his friend the wheaten terrier next door. I clip off dead leaves, pick the plentiful beans and the rare sugar snap pea; I inspect the tomato plants and try in vain to keep them from encroaching on the other vegetables. On Fridays, I water. I think about Rebbe Nachman’s prayer: “God, grant me the ability to be alone; may it be my custom to go outdoors each day among the trees and grass, among all growing things…”

One morning, maybe two weeks after I planted, I took some photos in my garden box and texted them to my daughter who at the time was in St. Paul. To the picture of a tiny kale plant with leaves turned to lace by a very hungry caterpillar, I added the caption: “Kale fail.” This set off a string of rhymes, like “Ugh, bugs.”  “Too true.”  “Happy Snap Peas.”  I fretted because my beans were spindly, the tomatoes had transplant shock and looked bad. “The lettuces aren’t thriving,” I wrote. “The gourds growing out of the compost are taking over the planet! Oh, but the zucchini will probably be fine.”

My daughter texted back: “I want a t-shirt that says, ‘the zucchini will be fine’.”
I totally want that t-shirt!  “Too bad I’ve already made you a birthday present.”

People ask, How are you doing during this pandemic? Fine, really. I can’t complain. I still have a job; my husband and dog and I are generally healthy. My parents? They’re fine, too. (I call a couple times each week and scold them a little for going out and not taking the pandemic seriously. I can hear them roll their eyes.)

If there’s more time to respond and a real interest on the part of the one asking, I might add:  I miss my kids. They’re in different time zones. I haven’t seen either of them in eight months, and it feels like we might never see them again. I mean, they’re okay. They’re living their lives. They’re both responsible, assure me they wear masks in public and keep their distance outside of their pods. They work, and read, and write, and make things; they bake challah and make shabbat dinners, attend Zoom services and do a little Torah and Mishnah study and learn Yiddish – I am comforted by the thought that even if I did everything else wrong as a parent, at least I know they’ve launched their lives with strong Jewish identities. But still. They’re not here. I can’t hug them.

So, I sleep in. I try all day to read the daf yomi (daily page of Talmud); I distractedly pet the dog, attend zoom meetings in my pjs.  I take long walks in the neighborhood, then stay up too late watching dumb things on Netflix. Every so often I leave bags of produce by the front door of a friend’s house.  And in the mornings, I head to the back yard, fill my pockets with beautiful purple beans and small orange tomatoes. I squat and watch the bees doing their job on all the flowering vines. Most days, I harvest at least one squash, sometimes two or three.

The zucchini, of course, are fine.

 

Epilogue 

It’s January 2021. A few things have changed (like, our country has a new president…)

Last week I finished puzzle #21, and moved a book to the finished pile.
It’s now over a year since I last saw my kids. Some days I miss them so much, it hurts to breathe. But they’re fine. Thriving, even. I miss them, but I’m really proud of their resourceful adulting.

The zucchini plant is long gone, as are most of the others. The cherry tomatoes ended up being incredibly productive; I finally pulled that one out last week. Underneath its tangled vines, I discovered a swiss chard plant, leftover from my 2019 garden! Each time the bugs got to it, I cut it down; each time, it grew back. I stopped watering, let it be overwhelmed by the out-of-control tomato plant, and assumed it was dead – but there it is, thriving.

Soon I’ll replenish the soil, and in a few months I’ll plant again: beans, tomatoes – and of course, zucchini.

I still try to get outside every day, and remember the words of Rebbe Nachman of Bratslav:

God, grant me the ability to be alone;

may it be my custom to go outdoors each day

among the trees and grass, among all growing things,

and there may I be alone, and enter into prayer,

to talk with the One to whom I belong.

May I express there everything in my heart,

and may all the foliage of the field (all grasses, trees, and plants) awake at my coming,

to send the powers of their life into the words of my prayer

so that my prayer and speech are made whole

through the life and spirit of all growing things,

which are made as one by their transcendent Source.

May I then pour out the words of my heart before your Presence like water,

oh Lord, and lift up my hands to You in worship,

on my behalf, and that of my children.

—attributed to Rebbe Nachman of Bratzlav, transl. Shamai Kanter

~~~~~

Judy Karin came to Santa Barbara 35 years ago to complete a PhD in ultrafast optoelectronics at UCSB, and never left. She’s been a cantorial soloist, teacher, b’mitzvah tutor, wife, and mom, and is currently the director of CBB’s Melton School of Adult Jewish Learning. Read her previous essay for the CBB Voices Blog,”Teshuvah for Everyone?” HERE.