Lessons from a Squash Vine

We were living high on a bank above the Potomac River. An old stone retaining wall kept the house and the yard from sliding to the water. Compelled to grow food, I piled layers of organic material on top of flipped-over dug-up grass in that yard to create a “lasagna garden,” a fast and efficient method to create a bed in which to grow vegetables. It turned out to be potently fertile. The crookneck squash I planted there happily leafed and vined. It jumped the wall as if it were on rumspringa and continued to grow and fruit among the trees on the precipitously steep bank. It lived an existence both cultivated and wild. Harvesting was an adventure.

This season I’m growing the squash on a wire trellis, as if I might manage to control its natural tendency to wander. At first, I guided the vines towards the trellis, threading them through the spaces in the wire. Now, they need no such encouragement. The vines grow as if drawn forth by the universe, packed tight with leaves and tiny fruits, unfurling over the course of a day. The tendrils reach out and loop themselves many times over around the metal. Their coils are strong, flexible, and persistent. This plant’s life force is remarkable.

The pastor at the United Church of Christ spoke last week about the unpredictability of God’s ecosystem. That despite our efforts to control it, in fact, life is wild. That afternoon I walked the land I call home at South Mountain. Ferns verdant. The jaw bone of a deer left behind on the ground. Spice bush berries well on their way to a fall ripening. And stripes on the beech tree leaves. I knew instinctively that wasn’t right. I consulted my plant app and confirmed that this tree was suffering from Beech Leaf Disease, one of two beech-specific diseases running through our Eastern forests. The cause? A microscopic parasitic worm. Probably non-native. The result? Slow death to the tree.

I saw these leaves the same week that wildfire smoke found its way south from burning Canadian forests, trapped here by a heat dome. Someone posted a comment that nature will adapt and figure out how to survive such traumatic changes to the environment. But people? Likely not. Perhaps this too is all part of God’s wild ecosystem.

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An African friend speaks of our non-related, chosen families as pumpkin vines, connected by that tenacious and long vine that sustains us, regardless of our lack of blood connection. When I googled this concept, AI asked me, “Would you like to explore how to apply this analogy to a specific family situation you are facing?” Why, yes AI, I would. My blood family isn’t particularly savvy in the ways of pumpkin vines. It has no tendrils allowing it to cling and climb, thrive and grow. Like the beech trees, it is streaked with evidence of a toxic parasite.

I know everybody has family drama: the weird uncle, the cousin who spent time in jail, the one who could never hold a job, the one who gets married again and again, the narcissist, the alcoholic, the mean sibling, etc. I know I am not the only one. But the manifestation of family drama in my life right now hits hard. I’m drawn to the land and comforted by history, and yet the anger held by my siblings is roadblocking my ability to retain ownership of the family house and land that has been nurtured and loved by generations before me.

The pastor leads us in prayer:

“We know the seeds we have sown: anger which springs from our flinty hearts; bitterness which flows like a rushing river into another’s heart; hurtful words which wrap their thorny briars around a friend’s kindness; passion which poisons an innocent relationship. Your love for us can untangle the thorny mess we have made of our lives.

Forgive us our negative behaviors that do not contribute to the happiness of ourselves or of others. Keep us close to your heart, that we may replace indifference with care and choose more successfully to live with you and our neighbors.”

I need to hear this. I need to acknowledge my own anger. I need to look for a way through this. I need to come to resolution and to peace.

I turn to my body and to the physical way I interface with the world.

I dance on the front porch of this family house. Like the squash vine, I am drawn forth by the universe into manifestation. My arms spiral and reach out into the warm summer air. My feet press into the ground and my legs pull the life force upwards. My chest opens outwards. My face takes in the warmth of the sun. A breeze brushes across my skin. I twist and turn and touch the air with my fingertips. I am unfurling. I am a vine. I look for my tendrils, the small curling filaments that connect me to that which sustains me. I expand. I am both cultivated and wild. I am part of God’s ecosystem.

I ask for the squash vine’s determination. I seek the support of my pumpkin vine family. I empathize with the deer whose jaw bone rests on the ground and with the beech tree that is helpless in the face of an infestation. I sit with the unpredictability of God’s ecosystem. I await resolution.

I pray: Resilience come to me. Strength rise in me. Compassion multiply within me.

We shall see what the harvest brings.

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This little film was made for “Intentional Terrarium,” a project from a few years ago. Some of it was filmed on the porch referenced above. I was interested in isolating body parts (feet in this case) since I had received a comment from someone who had seen a different film I’d made that they were uncomfortable seeing disembodied hands. So, I leaned into their discomfort. And this is the result.