My son placed seeds in the dirt one at a time while encouraging each of them to “grow, grow, grow!” Then, we went to a paint-and-bake pottery place. My son chose a small cactus and a miniature Eiffel Tower to paint. “To put in the garden,” he told me.

My garden is filled with memories. There are painted ceramics my adult daughters made in their younger years as well as wood carvings, painted rocks and even an old bus stop sign a friend salvaged for me. All of these items have special meaning, and they remind me of where I’ve been. The practice itself reminds me of my late father-in-law, who liked to place toy cars and figurines around his garden. I loved the little discoveries tucked in the dirt between flowers or on a window ledge near a blooming bush. This was something fun we once shared. Now, it is a practice that also serves to honor him. “Just like Grandpa,” my son will say.

Everything in my garden seems hitched to a memory — even the flowers we plant.

The lily of the valley transports me to elementary school when my mother would cut them, wrap the stems in a wet napkin and cover it with foil for me to carry in the procession of Mary for the “May Crowning,” which happens in Catholic churches each spring.

Summer bachelor’s buttons take me back to the first time I planted my own row of flowers: a seed packet purchased with my stepmother and the leggy booms they produced.

Will my son treasure zinnias and gladiolus because we planted them together? Will he treasure a red hibiscus when he’s grown like he loves them now as a child? He has named each one we’ve planted. Will he continue the family tradition of placing little items in his garden for admirers to discover? I hope so.

The way a seed becomes a living plant that can fuel both body and soul will always feel magical to me. And the wonder in my son’s face tells me that he can feel it, too. That complete, gripping sustenance that solidifies our awareness of our place in this natural world. The cycle of life requires us to all put our hands in it, to germinate seeds and ideas that contribute to our world. When we do this, we also honor those before us who have had their hands in who we grow to become.

The time spent with my hands in the dirt is a mindful practice. Dirt church, I like to call it. Gardening grounds me in the work of cultivation while also tethering me to the deep remembrance of the people who have shared their lives and love with me. When my son grows up and no longer lives at home, our memories will be found here in the garden, too.

— Bonnie Jean Feldkamp is the Opinion Editor for The Louisville Courier Journal