I was a mess in the summer of 2005. Excited about big life changes — getting married, starting a freelance business, moving with my new husband to a new state. But I felt lost for a long time in my new central Pennsylvania town.
The way people talk here reminded me of my relatives, so felt a bit familiar. Otherwise, I felt disoriented. Landlocked and claustrophobic. No big water — like the mighty Kennebec River or vast Atlantic I’d worked and lived beside. Nor cool sea breeze in summer to flush away the heavy blanket of humidity. The scent of fresh pig manure spread on the farm fields was a cruel reminder to me of how far I was from the sea.
So I walked and explored, looking for footholds.
My new town was both adorable and gritty, built into steep hills among emerald ridges. Ornate, crisply painted Victorian houses with tidy lawns along tree-lined streets. And, closer to my not-so-fancy, petite “folk” Victorian house, some run-down homes, the ugly brick back-end of the county courthouse and jail, small-town dive bars below street level.
One September morning, I spotted bright orange through grey light. An enchanting pumpkin vine. Hidden far behind and down the hill from the house it belonged to, a fresh, shining small pumpkin swelled among lush vines spilling over a stone wall.
A welcome anchor
The pumpkin felt magical, and somehow just for me — although it was hardly a secret. It grew in plain sight of anyone who walked along the back alleys, public less-traveled lanes spanning backyards.
This pumpkin vine had broken loose from the patch, or perhaps just grew from the seeds of the previous autumn’s jack-o’lantern after rot had consumed its toothy grin.
Perhaps I felt a certain kinship with that rogue vine. Or we were both confused. Who knows.
The vine and the pumpkin were beautiful, and became one of my little mental anchors as I settled in. Instead of quiet mornings on the shore of a tidal river, watching the tide come in one teensy bit at a time, I watched the pumpkin grow day by day.
“I saw my magic pumpkin today,” I remember telling my dad over the phone. “It’s almost all orange now.”
Cool, he said. I could hear he was smiling. We’d reached a nice place, where we could actually talk about little ordinary stuff, because we’d tackled most of the big, thorny stuff.
Tucked among the wild patch
Now, the central Pennsylvania town where I live has much more flat land and room to spread along the valley floor.
Four ripening pumpkins grow hidden among the messiest part of my messy garden, beside the wood pile. They remind me of that magic pumpkin, that there is always magic to find in the mess. I remember to bloom where planted, to keep growing and reaching for the sun.
It all worked out — exactly as it was supposed to. Just not as I planned.
Yes — there is plenty of mess beyond my weedy garden: Huge and complicated problems we face as people finding our way day-by-day, healing our wounds, as families raising children, as a global community facing unprecedented loss.
I see and grapple with those messes.
Yet, we can’t forget to look for the magic in the mess, for what delights us and keeps us going. That magic surrounds us. It gets us through.
Among the Wild Plants
You can barely see the four little orange pumpkins below the tall green stalks of cup plants with spent blossoms, the compost pile with summer’s watermelon rinds and mussel shells, the sprawling scraggly volunteer tomato vines, the potted plants parked and awaiting a home — and lots of weeds.
I keep the front beds much tidier.
But here is where the magic lives — in this wild patch out back. This is where the tidy, precise corners and solid strength of my husband’s woodpile meets my beautiful mess. He is not who I’d married and moved here with in 2005 — but the man and family I needed to come here to find.
Magical, orange reminders that I’ve landed in a place surrounded by beauty and love. That we’ve made a home here.
The bees love the yellow blossoms of those cup plants. An army of mighty critters — worms, ants, beetles and the “roly-poly” pill bugs — turn our food scraps and grass clippings into fresh, rich soil. As they work their wonders, surviving seeds sprout into new life. Surprise vines bearing surprise pumpkins and the gourds the little boy next door, my garden buddy, calls “skooshes.”
I look into the messes and trust they hold magic, often hidden. Today, let’s find a “secret” something just for us, that delights and lifts us — or just find a bit of time to quietly wander, be still and let it find us.
