In May and June and again in July, I tried to plant a garden. It felt right, those months, to turn over topsoil with bare hands and make something out of nothing.

Or try. Aphids and slugs came to battle against an angry sun that baked wet dirt into clay in no time at all. Then the squirrels got my strawberries and it was like nothing wanted to thrive on my watch, including me.

Since the first seed packets, I’d worried nothing would grow. And for a while, nothing did.

I planted and replanted and attended and let it sit. And sit, and now everything is everywhere. Curious leaves of spinach. Confused yet proud basil. Happy little carrots. Bemused jalapeños.

Gardening has shown me how much I don’t know. But it’s also revealed that I’m OK with uncertainty, despite daily anxiety that shouts at me otherwise.

I’ve learned that I don’t need to know everything to simply move ahead. That a place of order can look great on paper—and it often does. You can water and harvest and hope for the best, and sometimes it works. Except when it doesn’t.

And even then, life goes on, seeds scattered all over. They’ll take where it’s right.