The tomatillo and the trumpet vine

A gardener's fable

There was once a yard in a small, rural town in Virginia that surrounded an old farmhouse erected sometime in the late 1800s. The western side of the farmhouse was shaded by black walnut trees under which children had played, couples had married, and at least one eastern cottontail had died by the canines of an overly playful vizsla.

The yard had many flower beds and a vegetable patch. The current property owners were grateful to the previous gardeners, who lived on this plot for forty years and from whom they had inherited a thriving asparagus patch, blackberry bushes, and commissioned landscaping plans full of beautiful dreams that were not yet realized.

The current inhabitants still felt new to their plot of land after four years spent weeding, trimming, mowing, and planting. It was a surprisingly complex territory for being only one third of an acre. Vegetables thrive in the Shenandoah Valley, but so do all manner of vermin. There was always some new crisis to confront, from wild critters bringing fleas into the stone cellar to erratic weather patterns. One year, a drought shriveled the walnuts in their shells. Another year, heavy rains spread cedar rust to the new serviceberries and apple tree. Then, the spotted lantern flies arrived in force. All the while, the lady of the house went to war with bullies like English Ivy, Star of Bethlehem, and gooseneck loosestrife, which threatened to engulf every bed. Finally, over the past two years, the battle royal began as trumpet vine started to invade a large section of the yard.

Black walnut tree covered in trumpet vines

Trumpet vine is native to the eastern United States, yet classified as an invasive weed by the USDA. If you have ever had one in your yard, you know why. These monsters can grow up to forty feet in one season. They have been known to damage mature trees, large fences, and to tear brick siding off of a house. They spread by seed as well as underground rhizomes. The only way to eradicate the vine where it is rapidly sprouting would be to bulldoze the whole area. This not being a viable option, the lady of the house hunts trumpet vine seedlings several times per week, armed with clippers, a bottle of targeted poison, and a tiny paintbrush. With very little hope and a good deal of stubbornness, she fights to protect her young American fringe trees, some flowerbeds, and the painted wood siding of her old farmhouse.

Meanwhile, in the food garden: a lone tomatillo volunteer takes root despite the fact that the yard’s current owners have never planted tomatillos. Was it born of a seed from last year’s dinner that overwintered in the compost and was later spread upon the garden as spring fertilizer? Or was a seed carried in by a bird, from some neighbor’s garden? Either way, the tomatillo has performed a feat. It not only seeded itself into the garden but escaped being weeded out of the bed (probably due to the fact that it looks somewhat similar to tomato seedlings…) Then, one day, this odd-looking “tomato” sports one unmistakable paper-wrapped berry. The iPhone comes out, the plant is identified, and the full mystery is revealed. Tomatillos are not self-pollinating, so the lone, productive tomatillo plant is named Mary. Over the next few weeks, several more fruits form.

Miracle tomatillos

As the gardener carries her random tomatillo harvest into the kitchen, she shakes her head. This wonder plant, in the same yard as the blasted trumpet vine!, she marvels.

And isn’t that just the way? These landscapes we build in nature’s house are so intricate and multifaceted. Beautiful, of course—especially from a distance, or as we drive by quickly, or when we take that first glance after entering through the wooden gates. Upon closer examination, however, they are war zones filled with noxious weeds, species-on-species violence, and the impact of global warming and pollution. This particular Eden is rife with both lesser and greater celandine, home to far too many rabbits, wasps, and alarmingly humongous giant stag beetles. It is also home to bees, ladybugs, a praying mantis, and tasty plants such as mountain mint, anise hyssop, black currants, and hazelnuts. This year, the mulberries in the side yard do not produce, for no apparent reason. The peony leaves turn black after blooming. And on the other hand, the fireflies, nature’s sensitive canaries, arrive in force to signal a healthy ecosystem.

Just so with these fragile bodies we rent. Health is not a stable state the whole system can ever reach in concert. We see the signs of health in fits and starts: in the fireflies rising from the dusk grass, in an improved mood after several bleak months, in the ability to stretch, carry, or walk a little more today than we could yesterday. Unhealth, a.k.a. unbalance, is also omnipresent, ready to sneak in between healthy moments wherever it can. I am enjoying the best fitness of my life and happily engrossed in my studies. At the same time, I am embarking on what could be a ten-year journey towards menopause. I’m experiencing symptoms from GI distress to heart palpitations to night sweats. Perimenopause, I am learning, is a much more protracted and inconvenient process than puberty. Yet this change is not one that people talk about, and I feel caught off guard. This battle, unlike some of my recent health battles, is not a disease. It is as natural, native, and balance-upsetting as trumpet vine.

It is easy to focus on the miracles or the monsters, on the tomatillo or the trumpet vine. I complete a solo seven mile hike at a fast pace, complete with a dip in a mountain stream, and I think: “I’m so healthy! Look at me go! I’m the best I’ve ever been.” Later that afternoon, I see a new healthcare provider who freaks out when she learns my history, losing her composure in the exam room and saying that she is unable to prescribe anything without consulting my cardiologist. The presenting symptoms that brought me to see her are swept under the huge, heavy carpet of my chronic illness identity, and I feel that I will never escape being defined by my diagnoses or risk profile, no matter how far I hike or run.

Whether you see hope or despair in a situation says more about you than it does about the situation. At the very least, your focus reveals the type of day you’ve been having. The wisest course, on those days when we are able, is to hold both the good and the bad, the healthy and the out-of-balance in ourselves, at the very same time. To identify not as ill or well, but as dynamic systems. Shimmering and short-lived, we contain whole worlds of microbial life and yet are as bright, spontaneous, and electric as a single bolt of lightening. To sit calmly with all of these contradictions is the real challenge—accepting that the Big Picture is not ours to know.