I planted a garden because it brings me disproportionate joy. Watering the plants is my worship. The smell of the water from the garden hose, the way my thumb shakes with exertion from making the water spray wide, to the way the cold droplets play rat a tat tat on my feet. I lose myself in the unhurried caretaking of the plants that will contribute to feeding my family. I take my morning coffee outside and tiptoe to the mini garden at the foot of the deck and squeal, “OhmygoshIgrewanhonesttogoodnesscucumber!” I run breathlessly upstairs to Sean brandishing the cucumber. “Do you see this? I grew this!” I beam as the girls ooh and ah over the progress of the broccoli and tomatoes. “Mom, are…