Seven years ago, I started planting an orchard.
At first it was only a few trees, each one chosen with the hopeful logic of someone imagining future summers: apples, pears, Nashi pears, quinces, peaches. Then one tree became another, and another. Eventually, I had thirty-six fruit trees growing around the house.
An orchard is a wonderfully optimistic thing to create. You plant a small, bare tree and are asked to believe in a future you cannot yet see. There is no immediate reward. For a while, there is only watering, pruning, watching, protecting, and wondering whether you have put the right tree in the right place.
Not every tree has produced yet. Some have dropped their fruit before it ripened. Others have needed more years than I expected before offering even the smallest proof that they were ready. This year, a violent storm took five trees but I will plant again. That is the nature of an orchard. You do not plant for this season alone. You plant for the seasons still to come.
Last year, one peach tree gave me just six peaches. This year, it doubled its harvest. My pear tree gave me its very first two pears. The Nashi pears promise their best harvest yet, and the quinces seem to be settling into their own steady confidence.
None of it happens on command.
There are years when a tree seems to do almost nothing. Then, without warning, it begins to give back. Perhaps that is why I like the orchard so much. It has its own timetable. It does not care about our impatience, our schedules, or our desire to see results quickly. Life is much the same.
Some dreams arrive quickly. Others need years of quiet care. Some disappoint us along the way. And sometimes storms, real ones or the other kind, force us to begin again. But there is something deeply satisfying about looking out at the garden and seeing what patience has built: trees that were once sticks in the ground, now casting shade, carrying fruit, and marking the passing of years.
The important thing is to keep planting.