Contending with a Life of Cultivation

by Leanne Talshahar

At the end of my Fall 2003 term, I found myself hurriedly drafting papers with too little incubation time to properly grow the ideas, and pruning a garden of Composition I and II reports. Exhausted from plowing through what seemed to be a field of mental rocks, I looked at my boots and determined that they were the problem. They were after all rather beaten up and worn. The leather around the soles had begun to fade and the style was all wrong. A new pair of shoes might be just what I needed to make my way easier. I stopped working, I stopped school, and I thought.

I had not been shoe shopping since my freshman year in community college, so the possibilities of new styles excited me. I finally had freedom to explore the racks of pointy shoes, square toed shoes, ballet shoes, and lifts, but none were quite right for tending my garden. While slipping on a black strappy number with three-inch heels, an ancient proverb, from a wise old king, came to mind, “Where there are no oxen, the manger is clean, but abundant crops come by the strength of the ox.” I looked down at my feet, awkwardly stuffed into the confines of patent leather. I imagined myself shoveling the shit from my oxen’s stalls in these pointy toed, pointy-heeled shoes. I’d certainly sink. Getting rid of the oxen wasn’t an option—how else could I plow my land?

Cultivating words was all I knew; it was what I did best; it gave me deep satisfaction. How could I turn my back on the garden I’d spent years building up? I began to crave the comfort of my wide-toed work boots that supported my ankles far better than any dressy strap. I picked up and studied the tossed-aside pair. They weren’t as bad as I originally thought. The stitching was still strong, and the sole had plenty of wear left: I didn’t need to throw them out—I only needed to clean them up. Sure, they had gotten dirty from use. I had lost time with family, suffered from information overload, and increased my debt, but these frustrations were a necessary pain I’d happily endure for the promised gain of a better quality crop.

As I brushed off the dirt of exhaustion, cleaned the ground in manure with a brick of saddle soap, and covered the stains with brown polish, I began to look at formal education as a tool that I took up each day to help me achieve my ultimate goal of helping people enjoy the fruits of an English garden. Every once in a while when my study seems too much to bear, I remember that without it, I could not yield the crop that I desire. I fortify my leather shoes with renewed commitment, giving it two coats, just in case the elements are particularly cruel, and reenter the work field, clutching the promise of an abundance: a harvest of food for today and seeds for tomorrow.

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