When I began my homesteading journey, my focus was simple and utilitarian. I wanted to grow vegetables. I’d completed two farm internships where I learned how to build shelter, grow food, and care for animals. In theory, I knew what I was doing, but I’d never grown anything on my own without the guidance of a skilled farmer.
I had something to prove.
My land is modest, a couple of acres hidden between two cornfields. And my first attempts at food production were also modest. I had a container garden where I grew squash, tomatoes, and zucchinis in five-gallon buckets. Kale, lettuce, and cabbage were grown in plastic planter pots that I bought online. And I had one garden bed where I grew potatoes.
The setup was not impressive to look at, but it worked. My family and I enjoyed countless salads and bowls of potato soup in the summer. With each passing year, the operation grew bigger and more complex. I built a greenhouse. I added more garden beds. I also experimented with questions such as: “Is it better to compost kitchen scraps or bury them directly in the garden soil?”
As time went on, the harvest grew bigger. Many of the vegetables were canned and stored in our pantry for future use. Others were given to friends and relatives. I’ve learned that there is no better way to strengthen a relationship than to give someone vegetables that are fresh from the dirt.
But something strange happened to me as the years progressed. I started seeing myself less as an individual living on the land and more as an extension of it. The soil wasn’t just a means to an end. It was my friend. The homestead wasn’t just the place where I lived. It was my home.
And like every new homeowner—once I felt comfortable that I’d covered all the basics—I decided it was time to decorate.
I started by working on the flower beds around the house. Despite their name, they had exactly zero flowers growing in them. There were a few bushes that had been added by the previous owner, but other than that there were just weeds. Previously, I justified my neglect by pointing out that many of the weeds growing in the beds—nettles, plantains, and dandelions—were excellent rabbit food. So by leaving the flower beds without flowers I was maintaining a food source for our animals.
But that excuse began to wear thin when it became clear that those same plants were available in other parts of the property. Also, I don’t think my neighbors were fond of the apparent chaos growing around my house.
So, I mulched the beds and planted flowers.
I tried to focus on varieties that would attract bees and butterflies. I placed hostas and coral bells in the areas that spend most of their day in the shade, and I planted brown-eyed Susans along with their cousins, black-eyed Susans near the hydrangea bushes.
Bees arrived first, buzzing from bloom to bloom like monks on pilgrimage. Then came the butterflies, delicate and ephemeral, their wings painted with the same palette as the flowers they visited. And then, in the quiet hours of dusk, came the moths.
I hadn’t expected the moths.
Of course, I knew moths existed. I often watched them dancing around my parent’s porch light as a kid. And I was familiar with the old adage, “Like a moth to a flame.” But I’d never heard of moths being drawn to flowers.
But they were drawn to the flowers. They flocked to them in droves and took refuge in their leaves. During a late-night gardening session, I watched clouds of them emerge from my flower beds. They floated upward, pulled skyward by the light of the moon.
I learned later that moths use flower nectar as a food source. Like their daytime cousins, moths flit from flower to flower in the evening in search of nourishment. As they do this, they pollinate flowers and fruit trees, ensuring that more food and beauty enters our world.
When I started planting flowers, I didn’t do it with the intention of helping the moths. But I’m glad I did.
As Westerners, we often forget that our actions have downstream consequences. Our thought process may be, “Who cares, I am only hurting myself.” But the truth is that when we engage in actions that are harmful to us, we often cause harm to others as well. Similarly, when we engage in actions that are beneficial, the people, plants, and animals around us also benefit.
This is why the Buddhist teaching of karma is so important. When we understand karma, which can be best understood as cause and effect, we begin looking at what the consequences of our actions might be, and we understand that there may be many unexpected consequences as well.
In my case, the karma of my decision to plant flowers is that I created a home and food source for moths in addition to the bees and the butterflies that I was expecting.
With this in mind, I think I’ll plant a few more.
Namu Amida Butsu
Related features from BDG
We Are the Flowers in the Garden
Buddha in a Teacup: Sip. Smile. Enlighten!
Finding Sanctuary: A Sensitive Soul’s Journey with Buddhism, Mindfulness, and Service
We Are Already Buddhas
