What do you know about gardening?

Do you know how to get on your knees and dig in the dirt? How to plant summer squash and basil from seeds, how to water them regularly, and how to wait for the first tendrils to rise from the earth?

Have you ever marveled at a radish bulging out of the soil? Have you ever stood at the kitchen counter, sampled a slice and laughed at its awful taste?

Have you ever sown rows of zinnia, delighted in their growth and discovered that, days later, your tiny sprouts were gobbled up by rabbits? Have you ever cried over plants, or people?

What do you know about heartbreak? What do you know about peace?

Do you know the joy of sharing a perfect tomato, the one you picked at first blush, then let ripen on the counter? One bite could transport you to heaven, briefly.

Do you know how to keep coming back to your garden, how to rip out the crabgrass and the clover — all the invasive weeds that crowd out the healthy veggies — how to make room for all that’s beautiful and true?

What do I know about growing vegetables? A whole summer’s worth. Practically nothing. I’m not afraid to admit that I’m still learning. Gardening, it seems, is part tending, part trusting the sun to do its work. I surrender. I’m not afraid to kneel in the dirt.