Blooming Potatoes & Showing Up for Yourself
I’m going to break the routine here and tell you a special story, about a special woman, and an under-appreciated plant, to walk us into 2021.
That special woman is my grandmother Vira. Some of you may have seen me post things about her on instagram; she has been a role model for as long as I can remember. In Crimea, when my brother and I were kids, we spent many weekends at her house, climbing into bed and begging her to tell us her stories, which made us laugh so hard our bellies would ache, she always had a way with comedy. We ate delicious home-cooked meals like blinchiki (crepes) and chebureki (fried, meat-patty thing). We also tended to her potatoes. Yes, this story cannot get anymore Eastern European--my grandmother had a large patch of land where she grew the most Soviet thing one could grow--potatoes. (And no, to my knowledge, she did not make vodka out of them later.)
Growing your own vegetables was a common practice and highly encouraged; you didn’t have to have a house to do so, apartment complexes had gardens behind buildings that belonged to various units, and the municipal government rented out land. Quite often, whatever you grew, your neighbour didn’t grow--because that way you two could swap. So if I grew tomatoes and you grew potatoes, we’d have both. I remember running errands with my mom and my grandmother often, where we had to go to a neighbour in the community to exchange freshly baked bread for fresh milk, for example. I found this rather tedious and always begged not to go, but it never worked. Now, I understand the purpose of the small journeys--in them, lives community-building, kindness, and compassion.
The trips I despised the most however, were the potato farming ones. We had to walk a long way - uphill both ways! - and then spend what felt like hours digging in the “dirt”. The “dirt” always had a lot of gross crawly things, worms terrified me (to be honest, although I’ve learned to love “dirt” and most crawly things, worms still get me) they were incomprehensible, so sleek, slimy and squirmy, looking at them I almost felt like they themselves were uncomfortable in their own skin. I would help rake, or sow, and rake some more; I’d carry heavy watering cans and spill half of it by the time I got to the patch that needed watering. My brother was way more enthused, he didn’t leave my grandmother’s side and didn’t mind leaving dirty and exhausted. Sometimes, when my grandmother was too preoccupied, I would sneak off to a nearby sunflower patch. They were taller than me and perfect to hide in. I loved their yellow petals and how they always turned to face the sun. I’d sit down at their feet and hunt for ladybugs to observe, although they would always find me first. I would hear my grandmother calling me, but I’d pretend to not notice...for the first three calls at least. The sunflowers, tall and in all their glory, almost mocked my grandmother’s potatoes that sat deep within the dark soil.
Beyond all else, I was irritated at how often we would arrive at a “dirt” patch--with absolutely no crop in sight. We would show up so often to this patch of nothingness, I didn’t understand why my grandmother made such long trips and laboured hunched over or on her knees for so long, to see nothing--day in and day out. She would patiently explain that the potatoes grew in the dark, in the soil, unlike the showy sunflowers the work was done where nobody could see--they were a humble yet mighty vegetable that way. Sure you could see the green leaves and stems coming up to soak in the sun rays and feed the potato underneath, but I found them rather useless and quite frankly, a bit irritating because, what good were they for? The goods were still below.
Coincidentally, harvesting potatoes manually was not easy either. Sometimes my grandmother would instruct us to find looser shrubs and if they came easily, to pull them out by hand. She never used a shovel, but always raked--because shovels chopped up the potatoes in the soil. The first time I saw a potato plant pulled out, I was pleasantly surprised that instead of the one-single potato that I had imagined--out came 4-6 per shrub. What I had imagined as the best outcome, was surely surpassed by the reality.
It wasn’t until I saw a potato plant in bloom, with small white flowers that had a vague star shape, that I thought potatoes were actually kind of cool.
On the walks back, my grandmother would often sing a tune. This was such a big part of her identity, these trips especially, that she later wrote a poem that is now published in her recent collection (Spring Melody, 2020), titled “The Soil is Calling”. The poem transcribes her general attitude around how she approached life, the last two lines especially:
People say “what you sow, you will reap”
So you shall sow with love, and reap the love.
After we would harvest the potatoes - I use the term “we” loosely here, as it was mainly my grandmother and an adult helper or two - the fun part would begin: eating them. They were roasted with mushrooms, mashed with dill, pickled (and you thought this story couldn’t get more Eastern European), put into salads with peas (olivier), flattened into fritters or pancakes, and even used as stuffing for perogies. Once I pulled a potato out of a sack to give to my grandmother and saw a small sprout. My grandmother explained that perhaps it was warm for them there and they thought it was their time, that is--Spring.
The possibilities were endless, and they could last you all winter.
But none of these culinary rewards could’ve been possible, if my grandmother didn’t put in the work.
She visited them regularly, tended to them often, and cared for them immensely.
Simply put, my grandmother showed up for them. Showing up for them meant that one day she would’ve reaped the rewards and carried through a commitment to herself.
Recently, I’ve been remembering these days and deciphering why these memories have been sticking in my mind. And then it dawned on me, the way my grandmother showed up for those potatoes is how she showed up for herself and the world in general. This began to spin a few questions: who do I show up for? And how do I show up for myself?
I never once heard my grandmother complain about having to go. It was always an adventure. My brother loved these trips because of that. I, though, sulked or hid and daydreamed about when I would be eating the potatoes.
So as we enter into a new calendar year, out of what felt like one long year (or March), with perhaps not as many answers or even that many clues as to what is to come, I invite us to consider how we will show up for ourselves, our community, and our inner and outer gardens.
In 2021, show up for yourself the way my grandmother showed up for those potatoes.
Rain or shine.
Make it out to the field.
That is half the job.
Kneel down, roll up your sleeves and do the work because you deserve a full tummy and heart.
Then harvest, and when you harvest--make it known. Tell people about the fruits of your labours.
Sing a song about it on your way home. Post it, repost it. B.R.A.G.
May we create more with our hands. The energy you put into the art, meal, and any task lives quietly, and yet people sense it.
Reap the love.
May we share what we’ve made with our neighbours, friends--old and new.
May we dream big; may we see acres of wild dreams even though we’re looking out onto bare land, unsure of where to start.
Is it empty?
Is it lost?
No.
No.
No.
Yet, yes.
It is full of possibilities. BRIMMING.
Begin to rake.
Sing a song.
When you think you’re only planting one potato, remember that life may surprise you with a whole bunch. Beyond your comprehension, knowledge, or even vision.
And when you’re tired, do go into the field and look at the sunflowers and the ladybugs--they will remind you as to why you’re here:
to soak in the sun, even when you feel like you’re living deep in the dirt.
One day, you will rise, even bloom.
One day, your love will feed a village.
Happy New Year’s Eve.
Blessings in 2021.
🌱
Reflection Prompts
List how you will show up for yourself in each category below. These can be actions, feelings, character values:
Relationships (platonic, romantic)
Career (jobs, vocations)
Health (physical, emotional, mental)
Home (personal, familial matters)