Protected: The Garden: A Care Form

bright yellow oxeye sunflowers, also known as false sunflowers, from my mother’s garden, native to turtle island and found growing in prairies, mountains, fields, and woods; growing native pollinator plants like these help support the ecosystem

I live and work on tiohtià:ke, also known as Montreal, the unceded land that has traditionally been cared for by the Kanien’kehá:ka nation. My mother’s garden, which I will be talking at length about, is located on Indigenous land that was originally cared for by members of the Anishinaabeg nations, the Wendat nation, and the Haudenosaunee nations.

I am privileged to continually learn from this land, and know that this is a direct result of ongoing colonial projects. As a white settler, a child of an immigrant, I will always have a complicated relationship with the history of this land, and wish that I came to it differently than I did. I am grateful to have grown up with this soil on my feet, and to feel a deep connection to our agricultural community that flourishes today because of it. When I want to feel safe, I close my eyes and see its fields and forests and lakes. I know that I would not be who I am, and this project would not be possible, without this land and its caretakers. To talk about gardening, or agriculture more broadly, is to talk about the erasure of Indigenous ecological knowledge in favour of ‘objective knowledge’ dictated by white Eurocentric values. To talk about the global movement and development of plants is to talk about colonial violence, anti-black racism, and slavery.(1) I hope to handle the necessary tension of these histories with care throughout this project.

garden birdsong mixes with machine beeps of infusion clinic; the past, present, and future of this project colliding in sound

purple coneflowers from my mother’s garden, native to eastern and central turtle island, its roots and seed heads have medicinal properties and were used by first nations in traditional medicine

(1) Khaki and Srivastava, 2020

in my infusion clinic, the medication cycle six months before this one was meant to be scheduled, infusion pump machines, room partially obscured by a laptop screen

in its simplest form, this is a story about being denied access
that uses access to do the telling,
a thing that persists despite the failings of its care container
and tries to imagine into being
a different form of care

this care exists in its own time and space
created by sound, visuals, text,
and the access provisions that connect them

knit letters in seed stitch, spelling out ‘TEND’, dyed in shades of browns and yellows with plant dyes (identified underneath)

in 2022 I spend the summer months at my parents house
because I cannot tend myself

my biologic medication is delayed for 10 months by the mess of communication
between those who compose my Medical Industrial Complex:
my insurance company, pharmaceutical company, doctor’s clinic, and provincial government, their ‘qualification criteria,’ their diagnostic requirements,
their claims to their knowledge of my body,
those who are beholden to the medical model of disability,
who see my chronic illnesses and disabilities as individual,
pathological problems to be ‘fixed’ by medicine,
a neoliberal construction that makes me a body
instead of a person

so that, in my pain,
when I ask my doctor to accompany me I am really speaking to
a company

the desjardin company logo outside their montreal office, amidst a garden of multicoloured tulips

lavender stems with petite purple pastel petals

instead, I build with the social model, that acknowledges
the construction of disability by socio-political factors, in which

“[s]ocieties decide which bodyminds are normal or abnormal (disabled) and then create systems and spaces to fit only those deemed normal.”(2) 

and the political/relational model, in which,

“the problem of disability no longer resides in the minds or bodies of individuals but in built environments and social patterns that exclude or stigmatize particular kinds of bodies, minds, and ways of being.”(3)

disability is an intersectional(4) political positionality,(5)
always experienced in relation to conceptions of embodiment

my mother’s voice reading a quotation

(2) Critical Disability Studies Collective, 2023

(3) Kafer, 2013

(4) Crenshaw, 1989

(5) Anderson, 2020

my mum holding a bouquet of sunflowers and zinnias she picked from a local flower farm, 2022

the blooming cherry blossoms of my parents’ cherry tree in their backyard, sun filtering through petals

the ‘social determinants of health’ also build this environment
which in turn informs people’s health and care
meaning that a doctor is less likely to believe and appropriately diagnose pain as it occurs in women and non-binary people,
meaning that racialized people are more susceptible
to developing certain illnesses, like Covid-19 (6)
and when identities intersect,(7) the impact deepens
dangerously

this form of healthcare we rely on, and the problems it proliferates make it insurmountably difficult to imagine stories
that don’t depend on these systemically unjust frameworks

but I want to try

my main symptoms, chronic fatigue and musculoskeletal pain, become too much to bear before the year’s last frost,
so I seek shelter in my family’s care

as I stay and wait, I learn about access provisions
through a chronic illness reading group I join in search of community,(8)

then an online access-driven art residency,(9)
then through my own research,
about integrated access like artwork description, built into the art from its beginning,(10) which

“can lead to a generative and iterative style of art making that expands your art practice”(11) 

this fulfils the primary goal of facilitating access to art,(12)
while also more accurately representing the aesthetic experience
of the visual through the verbal, or vice versa

(6) CPHO, Feb. 21, 2021

(7) as per intersectional theory

February 2022, freezing rain made frosted glass of the windows in my apartment

(8) Waerea, 2022

(9) Socially Distant Art

(10) Cavallo and Fryer, 2018, pp. 12-13

(11) Socially Distant Art Leadership, 2022

(12) ibid.

seedlings of lettuce in small pots; seeds are started inside in April and May, then planted in the garden after the long weekend in May to avoid the final frost

small pot of basil seedlings

though traditional access provisions are often “closed” and “post hoc,” a checkbox to be ticked,(13) integrated access

“refers to ways of embedding access provision[s] so that access…is part of the creative process.”(14) 

and that

“Access is not simply an obligation. It offers a creative challenge”(15) of creating an ‘iterative’(16) work of art,
that engages people with different capacities

by some strange synchronicity,
my method of research-creation complements this iterative approach,
is something that has been called ‘disability as method’ (17)

in me this means changing the kind of work I do depending on my capacities in a given day

so that when my hands hurt, I can do research by listening to audio books,
or when my brain fogs, I can work in photoshop on visual art/poetry,
or dictate, or swipe type, or draw, or photograph, or record audio…

to try the line of inquiry from different places, in slowed time
in a way that allows my body to guide the research, instead of making it the obstacle that prevents me from doing work

these are practices built by care

(13) Cavallo and Fryer, 2018, p. 5

(14) Cavallo and Fryer, 2018, p.5

(15) Cavallo and Fryer, 2018, p. 12

(16) Lazard, 2022

(17) Mills and Sanchez, 2023

grid of seedlings in peat pots

at the same time as I learn about these communities of practice, of care, my mother begins her yearly gardening practice, another form of care
that parallels the care she performs for me, and, ironically, juxtaposes the central figure
in the delay of my medical care, my insurance company, Desjardins, which means ‘gardens’ in French

if Desjardins represents the medical (model) industrial complex,
my mother’s garden represents
my hope for a different care form

my mum’s rain boots, gardening gloves, and shears set on the floor near a container of seedlings

tops of oregano in pastels, chevron leaves overlapping

as I begin describing the garden’s processes and methods, integrated access guides my composition,
and garden stages begin to correspond with
concepts I learn through critical disability studies, concepts articulated because of their necessity

to imagining otherwise(18)
associations that make method of metaphor

(18) Olufemi, 2021

knit letters in seed stitch, spelling out ‘ATTEND’, dyed in shades of browns and yellows with plant dyes (identified underneath)

my mum’s large container garden, filled with budding lettuces, kales, and other greens

the garden is a built environment with environmental factors

in the healthcare context, environmental factors
list my genetics, identities, exposures, behaviours
as potential rhymes to reason with my incurable, unknowable diseases just as in the context of the garden,
light, water, and weather indicate whether the growing will be good,

though sometimes things grow, or they don’t

in a capitalist environment, my body is valuable according to its productivity, is ‘sick’ in its incapacity to be productive,
but in the slowness of the garden,
in the waiting for things to happen and grow

in describing the details I might otherwise overlook I find crip time, which

“insists that we listen to our bodyminds so closely, so attentively, in a culture that tells us to divide the two and push the body away from us while also pushing it beyond its limits.”(19)

my mum standing in a manicured garden at niagara parks’ botanical gardens in the early 90s

(19) Samuels, 2017

and artwork description describes this kind of attention

kale seen through the chickenwire, dewy with drops

the garden is a mix of beds and containers,
after years of small animals pulling plants before they can begin, leaving stalks and stems littered on the lawn like empty parentheses, the vegetable garden is built to support better growth,
a 25 square foot container of cedar planks
and a chickenwire framed roof,
that lifts or latches to the base,
each square within the square can contain certain plants,
using the limited space to increase your yield,
growing through limitations

in this, grows
ancient green kale leaves that curl inward and slowly stretch out, the young ones less bitter,
grows ruffle-edged green and purple lettuces,
the long-line scapes of green onions,
grows carrots and beets, one by one,
which in the fall we discover I planted too closely,
the carrots grew into their neighbours, as if in embrace

in old half-barrels and other un-roofed containers,
grow cherry tomatoes in round reds, pear tomatoes oblong yellows, heirloom tomatoes wide, wrinkled, gradients,
when the tall green stalks become too heavy to hold,
even with stakes supporting them,
we pluck green tomatoes and let them ripen on the windowsills

beetroot, circular burgundy topped by three stems and leaves

feathery carrot tops blur into one another

summer kale salad

(modified Ottolenghi recipe)

• candied pecans (mix brown sugar, cinnamon, and water in a pan until mixture bubbles, add pecans, stirring to coat with glaze, cook a few minutes, spread on parchment paper to cool)
• pomegranate molasses vinaigrette (reduce pomegranate juice in pot with sugar and lemon juice, add white wine vinegar, olive oil and salt to taste)
• quick pickled red onions (cut onion into half moons, toss in vinaigrette)
• roasted rhubarb (toss chopped rhubarb with sugar, roast in oven)
• roasted beets (wrap in foil, roast in oven, when done peel and let cool, dice into cubes)
• grilled halloumi (dice into cubes, pan sear until brown at the edges)
• fresh blueberries
• chopped mint
• chopped basil

letters arrive asking for more information about my body,
as I learn about the garden,
as midsummer kale grows tall to press against the chickenwire roof,
a tender sort of swell, slowly
I attend to the tending of the garden

letters arrive asking for more information, and we make salad

music on hold from XPOSE by Sandoz, a patient support group my doctor tried to get me access to my medication through; on this phone call they were contacting Desjardin on my behalf to discuss coverage options

mint in bright green pastels

knit letters in seed stitch, spelling out ‘TENDER’, dyed in shades of browns and yellows with plant dyes (identified underneath)

my mum’s hand holds two pea pods on their stem

when we plant the garden my mum mentions
‘companion planting,’ a phrase that to me sounds like interdependence, which

“moves us away from the myth of independence, and towards relationships where we are all valued and have things to offer. It moves us away from knowing disability only through “dependence,” which paints disabled bodies as being a burden to others, at the mercy of able-bodied people’s benevolence”(20)

the Kanien’kehá:ka, and the Wendat nations traditionally grew the ‘three sisters,’ corn, beans, and squash,
as companion plants,(21) creating biodiversity:

corn stalks grow tall and support the beans,

which climb the stalk, the squash vines, and benefit the soil,

while the squash protects from pests(22)

soft corn silk peeks out

(20) Mingus, 2017

(21) Abler, 2019

bright squash and its blossoms visible through chickenwire

(22) Boeckmann, 2023

spotted green cucamelon glimpsed through leaves

black-eyed susans, petals pronounced and pointed down

I call and get don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten you,

I’m taking care of it

my mum and I plant tomatoes and basil and cucamelon, which not only cook well together but
favour the same amount of water,
while the bold scented basil prevents pests,

like the bright marigolds which dot the vegetable garden,
while the strong tomato stalks, supported by trellises, support the cucamelon climb, their ringlet vines wrap around
and across and end in small light and dark green ovals

the golden rule between my family and I
concerning my care,
is that they wait for me to ask for help,
and in return I must be honest about my capacity,
and this communication begins to describe what Mia Mingus calls ‘access intimacy,’

“that elusive, hard to describe feeling when someone else ‘gets’ your access needs.”(23) 
and which she describes as a thing that is usually “built over years”(24)

bright round marigolds contrast dark fine bluey leaves, in pastels

zig zag line of green cherry tomatoes

(23) Mingus, 2011

(24) ibid.

purple lavender stems curve together in fine lines

when we plant the pollinator garden, it’s much the same
bright false sunflowers that turn to the light,
zinnias with layered petals of pinks and yellows,
and scalloped stems, middled by clusters of star florets, and native plants, wildflowers,

beloved black eyed susans with long down-curled petals, single pink-red corn poppies that ruffle in the wind

the low hum heard in thick summer days
as bumblebees slowly visit flowers and growing vegetables

we plant the flowers, the seeds feed the birds,
we plant the vegetables, the pollinators,
the bees pollinate the flowers, the vegetables
the rain fills the rain barrel, and we water
the vegetables, which feed us

interdependence means growing better, because we grow together

black-eyed susan flower heads in pastels, long yellow petals reaching down to the ground

on one false sunflower amidst many, a bumblebee gathers pollen

knit letters in seed stitch, spelling out ‘ATTEND HER’, dyed in shades of browns and yellows with plant dyes (identified underneath)

scalloped bud of a zinnia, surrounded by pointed leaves

access intimacy and interdependence are concepts accessed
through the valuing of the disabled and chronically ill lived experience,
which admits our knowledge is situated,(25) and specific to our standpoint,(26)
contrary to the medical model’s ‘objective’ knowledge of our bodies,
knowledge gained through experience
and given to others as information sharing,
represents a kind of open access knowledge rooted
in unpaid labours of care, such as childcare, cleaning, mending, cooking, and gardening

in a medical context,

“Experiences are processed, thought through, and felt, and knowledge is created out of these ongoing processes. For many people with [chronic illness], experience may be the only kind of knowledge they have available while searching for a doctor who will believe them.”(27)

(25) Haraway, 1988

(26) Anderson, 2020

(27) Holowka, 2023, p. 121

the zinnia bud slightly open, petals beginning small

when I sit in my doctor’s office and shut down, feel guilty for having this body,
my mum speaks up and says something like, No, I know my kid. That’s not right.

because while doctors have been doing research on illnesses, our families and friends have been learning us longer,
and they can read me in a way
no stranger ever could,
and while that’s not the only form of care I need,

it tempers the others with humanity

one morning I wake and my knee won’t bend (which is the main thing knees are meant to do)
I hobble to the hall and call help

part of my maternal great grandmother’s garden, sometime in the 60s-70s

the petals unfurled but still curled, star florets in the middle

the zinnia as it is, star florets and bright big petals, grown tall from its leaves

later I call my doctor at the kitchen table,
my mum pacing behind me, holding her tongue
as I explain, I just need some sort of help,
ask what’s happening and why haven’t we heard
anything from the insurance in almost six months
and I get nothing nothing nothing and I
slump further down in my chair and my
mum finally says, I’m taking her to the hospital if we don’t figure this out today. and then

suddenly
the person on the other end has an emergency appointment scheduled
for the next day

I look up at my mum before closing my eyes, knowing this old choreography,
knowing I don’t have the energy for it

whenever I ask my mum how she knows

all she does about the garden, she shrugs and says it’s through years of self-teaching,
or that someone she loves taught her,
and this usually means her mother, aunt, or grandmother

black-eyed susans and zinnias in my great grandma’s garden, sometime in the 70s

the zinnia dried on its stalk, colour bled and muted, petals pointing in every direction

at the end of the summer, the zinnias,
one of my mum’s favourite flowers,
begin to turn brown and dry on their tall stalks,
my great-aunt visits, asks if we’ve tried harvesting their seeds

and for the first time
I get to see the teaching happen, to be a part of it, to learn together,
as I stand beside my mum and great-aunt,
and we lean over the crispy zinnia blooms,

and she explains that zinnia seeds are connected to the petals,
so when you pull a dried petal near the base of the flower
out just so, the little green or brown triangular thing at the end
will grow in next year’s garden,

making it, like this knowledge, an ongoing, open ended process

the same dried zinnia, my hand holding a small green seed picked from the flower in foreground

like this, access is a process,(28)
“making accessible environments is never a “one and done” situation – it is always evolving, often with moments of friction that require nuanced situational solutions…[and the] acknowledgement that accessibility is complex, and if you don’t get it perfect…the first time, keep trying—through the work, creative and innovative solutions will be found.”(29)

the zinnia seeds I spend hours harvesting are placed in a bag, and when we’re

starting the seeds
in little brown peat pots the next spring,
we realize I didn’t dry them out long enough, and they’ve grown grey fuzzy mould,

not what I expected them to grow
but now I know

likewise, at the end of the summer I collect plant matter like feathery carrot tops, wilting herbs, crisp flower petals
in an attempt to record the garden in a different medium (asking how can the garden’s touch and tactility be recorded?)

the garden filled with fugitivity,
sound, sight, smell, taste, feel,
(and the recording of any of it related to Fred Moten’s concept of ‘fugitive sound'(30)
and the affectual embodiments and power relations implied within the recording)

became metaphor
I learn the plant dyes are infamously fugitive, meaning they fade over time
meaning even the recording of the garden
is a time-based work

I submerge the little yarn skeins in a little pot on my little stovetop,

then knit them into letters (in seed stitch)
spelling a variation on my key words:

tend,
attend,
tender,
tend her

once rinsed and dried, the yarn changes from vibrant greens and deep browns
to beiges and muted browns

their touch becomes tough, rough
where it was once soft,
and I realize that in my attempt to mordant the wool well,
(a process that tries to ‘fix’ colour to material, tries to make fixed the fugitive,)
I over-mordanted (added too much to the mix), something I learn is a common mistake for first time dyers

but in this toughness I see a symbol of resilience,
a metaphor for

(28) Kalidonis, 2022

(29) ibid.

(30) Moten, qtd. in Nardone

letter T, knit in seed stitch

letter E, knit in seed stitch

letter N, knit in seed stitch

letter D, knit in seed stitch

mistake making, responsibility taking,
“There is a fear around getting access right. The important thing is to consult and to learn from mistakes.”(31)

we’re learning in-relation, in process, trying

(31) Cavallo and Fryer, pp. 12.

knit letters in seed stitch, spelling out ‘END’, dyed in shades of browns and yellows with plant dyes (identified underneath)

my mum, seated on a patio chair, turning to prune the planter next to her, 2022

after nine months my infusion appointment is finally scheduled, our request of ‘compassionate care’ accepted
I call the clinic and ask what’s changed?
there are two letters on my desk in front of me

as I talk on the phone I take notes on the backs of school papers, draw geometric shapes along edges

one letter is dated October 28th and the other November 4th
the first states the old refrain, we need more information
the second says you’ve been approved

nothing has changed in these eight days

on the phone I hear, you really need to push more
and don’t be so naive and they probably got sick of hearing my voice 

and I don’t say anything, but I write it down: don’t be naive
not because I think I am, but because I want to know this is real,
a person responsible for my care is saying these things to me

this reminds me of another conversation, where my family and I argue about my care
they believe I should demand progress
with every agent responsible for the delay, annoy them into finally helping me,

I want to trust people to do their jobs, trust them to care;
is this naivety?
and if it is, is it a bad thing?

this is the way we talk about children,
calling them innocent, naive
(what do they know?)

my mum and I sit in the garden, talking while drinking tea, and without pausing conversation, she
begins deadheading the planter on her left:
finds the wilted colour-bled flowers, brown-edged leaves, gathers the dry dead things,
her thumb severs the stem,
fingers pluck the flower,
while the other hand holds, she sometimes lifts the hem of her shirt
to hold more, to be
carried to the compost bin across the yard

I always ask, can’t we just leave them alone? surely they’ll take care of themselves eventually

and her pragmatic answer is always the same: nothing new will grow if we don’t tend them like this

my mum as a child, arranging cut ferns in a metal can (probably soup) while camping, mid 70s

me as a child, watering my great grandma’s garden, 1997

my mum as a child, in my great grandma’s garden, smelling red thunbergia flowers, mid 70s

my great grandma helping me water the garden at her house, both of our hands on the handle of a watering can, late 90s

vegetable scrap broth

• collect carrot peels, celery leaves, onion skins, mushroom stems, zucchini ends (etc.) and keep them in a bag in the freezer
• when you have enough scraps, add water to cover and reduce on stovetop, then strain through a sieve
• use as alternative to chicken broth 
• I like to eat this with fresh baby bok choy and noodles

so as I understand it, pruning is a redirection of the plant’s energy
from the pursuit of a dead end endlessly
as compost, it can be used to grow other things

it can care in turn

in compost there is at once past, present, and future
the things we tried that did or didn’t work,
what we can learn from them,
and how we can grow with this knowledge

to make something k/new

though this is no escape,
no denial of things that lead to this moment, these problems,
tempered with a down-to-the-earth practicality

but in this I build space for naivety
when I look up the word, a French borrowing, I find that in a scientific context,
a ‘naive’ subject is defined as one

“not having previously had a particular experience”(32)

isn’t this how we all begin?
is this not how we enter the classroom?

the kindergarten program my mum follows in her classroom
(kindergarten a borrowing from German for ‘child’ and ‘garden’)(33) has a focus on ‘inquiry based learning’, which

“promotes the development of higher-order thinking skills by capitalizing on children’s natural curiosity, their innate sense of wonder and awe, and their desire to make sense of their environment”(34)

and, in which, it is the role of the educator to

“create a classroom ethos that fosters respect for others’ ideas and opinions and encourages risk-taking”(35)

this reminds me of the way Robin Wall Kimmerer talks about children and their attention as a model for our relationality with nature

“This comes back to what I think of as the innocent or childlike way of knowing — actually, that’s a terrible thing to call it. We say it’s an innocent way of knowing, and in fact, it’s a very worldly and wise way of knowing. And that kind of deep attention that we pay as children is something that I cherish, that I think we all can cherish and reclaim, because attention is that doorway to gratitude, the doorway to wonder, the doorway to reciprocity”(36)

reclaiming our attention, 
not pretending to know all
recasts things 
we might throw out as significant

in being open 
to what I don’t know, haven’t experienced, 
I value the experience more
I spend time in awe of small things, 
and my curiosity leads me to 
unexpected moments of connection
(research-creation co-creates this way of thinking)

it also brings me into community, reciprocity, 
with the beings around me,
and insists we are responsible for one another,
for the ways we help and hinder

when I walk into my mother’s garden in the spring, I am naive

to both my healthcare situation and the methods of the garden

but in this lack of knowledge, of experience, I find endless room for growth

me as a child, crouching to pick up a watering can in my overalls and rain boots, late 90s

(32) Oxford English Dictionary, “naive”

(33) Oxford English Dictionary, “kindergarten”

(34) Ontario Ministry of Education, 2011

(35) “Play-based learning in a culture of inquiry,” 2016

(36) Kimmerer, 2016

wispy and delicate sweet pea seedlings, my great grandma’s favourite flower; when she died in the early 2010s, at her funeral my grandma and great aunt gave my mum and the grandchildren, as well as me and the great grandchildren, packages of sweet pea seeds to plant in her memory; they’re annuals, and my mum still tries to replant them every year