When I was a young boy, my mom and I would always garden together. Every weekend, we would go out and buy packs of different seeds and rush home to plant them in our backyard. Over time, we grew strawberries, plums, apples – and the list goes on. But for some reason, I most vividly remember growing tomatoes together.
Each morning before I’d leave the house for school, I would run outside to check on our plants, hoping our tomatoes had ripened overnight. Of course, that was never the case – but I never lost hope. I would look closely and examine the exact spot where we planted the seeds, right next to our basil plants, confident that my focused stare would pressure my plant into growing more quickly.
As time went on, I would notice that the tiniest sprout that first peeked out of the soil kept growing taller and fuller with more and more tiny leaves appearing around it. Soon enough, the initial hint of green transformed into a juicy, red-orange tomato – and the time would finally come for us to pluck the plump prize of our patience from its stem.
I’d rush to the kitchen, juggling the fruits of our labor in the small palms of my hands, holding them closely against my chest so they wouldn’t fall. After washing them under the faucet, I’d lay them all out on the black marble counter and pat them dry with a paper towel, ever so delicately.
But when the time would come to decide what to do with our new tomatoes, I was always hesitant. My mom would come up with different ideas, enthusiastically suggesting we chop them into little pieces to mix into a salad, cut them into thin slices to add into a sandwich, or even cook them into a delicious tomato-basil sauce to go with her famous angel hair pasta – my favorite. But even so, I didn’t want to let go of my tomatoes. In an attempt to provide me with some heartfelt clarity, she would remind me that if we don’t eat our fresh tomatoes, they would eventually rot: “We should enjoy them now because we can always plant more tomorrow,” she’d say. And she was right; we continued to grow tomatoes and pick basil from our garden and cook them into different tasty dishes that I would eat with so much pride and satisfaction.
Yet, as the years went by and the seasons would pass, my mom and I would garden less and less frequently. Little Daniel seemed to outgrow his favorite ritual; growing up seemed to take too much of his time. Now, about a decade and a half later since then, things have changed, as they normally do over time. Garden views have faded into cityscapes, school lunches have turned into conference room meetings, classmates have been replaced by colleagues, and now I prepare my own lunches to take to work with me.
Almost every weekend, I make a trip to the grocery store to purchase food for the coming workweek. Yesterday afternoon, however, I opted for an adventurous change of plans; rather than heading to Mrs. Green’s market on Hudson Street like I normally do, I visited the Union Square Farmers’ Market. As I weaved through the different stands, I let my senses guide me: aromas of olive oil, rosemary, lavender soap, and freshly baked bread wafted through the air, as emerald apples, blood red cherries, and blazing yellow sunflowers filled my sight. I kept walking through the market, crossing all my items off my mental shopping list. I was about to head home – shopping bags slipping through my fingers – until an all too familiar scent waltzed around my nose, triggering an unexpected sense of nostalgia. I turned around – “Fresh Basil” was written across a black board in white chalk. And of course, next to the fragrant basil, were endless containers of bright red tomatoes.
I was suddenly transported back to Los Angeles, to my family’s garden next to my mom, as we planted our tomato seeds together – awaiting their ripened arrival until we crafted them into lunchtime masterpieces that I’d show off to my friends at school. Now, more than ever, as I stood facing these visual remnants of my childhood, that time feels like a memory more distant than ever before – a memory that has remained tucked away in the corners of my mind – until yesterday, when I was pleasantly reminded of its existence.
For years, I have always imagined what my adult life would turn out like – an evolving vision that began sprouting during the garden days, that has stuck with me since, as I continue to explore the Concrete Jungle. I’m finally living a version of that life that I always envisioned – as a “grown up,” as some people call it, living in New York City, with a job that beholds endless promise and possibility, and the capacity to feel and think and love and evolve as an individual.
But now, as I reflect back, I realize I didn’t end up here over night. Just like my beloved plants, rooted eternally in my childhood, time patience, hard work, and belief in my potential to grow have all collectively contributed in cultivating the man I am today.
As it seems, life is as cyclical as its moments are temporary: things change, (as they should), and reappear in new shapes and forms over time. With that, nothing is instantaneous. Life is a process – and the milestones we reach result from the steps and moments that have previously lead up to them. So, regardless of where we end up, we must always remember our roots. We ripen and blossom into the people we become because we begin as seeds first, and we grow – just as the independent man in the city first started out as the boy in the garden with his mother by his side.
As time continues to pass and I’m faced with obstacles, challenges, and my own fear of change, I try and channel little Daniel from the garden, the boy who had conviction in his craft even when he had his doubts. I know he’s still there inside – because he vividly reminds me of where I started, even when I have no idea where I’m going. Perhaps, therefore, if we acknowledge our past and embrace our beginnings, we can rekindle that same authentic comfort and confidence in who we are as individuals as life goes on, as the seasons change, and as we continue to grow into the people we are meant to become.
