Replanting Tomatoes (and the Will to Grow)
—12 May 2025 –
A journal reflection on memory, growth, and the scent of homegrown tomatoes.
Honouring My Dad (and my senses) with Tomatoes
This year, I decided to grow tomatoes as a quiet way of honouring my Dad. He used to grow them every year (this is my first attempt), and I think somewhere in me I wanted to keep that thread alive. I probably started a bit late—my plants are absolutely tiny compared to the big, bushy ones Monty Don’s just posted about—but it still feels like a sacred act of remembrance.
If I get some tomatoes in October or late September, then that’s fine. And if I don’t get any at all, that’s fine too. Already I’m getting that beautiful green tomato smell off the leaves—the one that hits you in the best way, sharp and fresh and earthy. That scent alone is enough to make this worthwhile.
It reminds me of Orange Vert from Hermès, probably my favourite cologne / smell in the world—green tomatoes and orange zest, tangled together. The fact that I’ve somehow conjured something like that from a packet of seeds… it honestly blows my mind a bit.
So this is where the reflection starts. From a few humble pots and a smell that reminds me of something deeper than I can explain.
Lessons from the Pots
Today I replanted tomatoes, and in doing so, I watched a quiet drama unfold—a parable in leaves and stems.
Some plants responded with an almost jubilant energy, rising up proudly in their new pots, as if to say, “Yes—finally! More space, more light, more room to become what I am.” They seemed to thrive on the expansion, welcoming the shift, relishing the stretch. Their energy was clear and eager. They wanted to grow.
But others were reluctant. When moved from the familiar container of their earlier life, they drooped. Some folded inward, listless and withdrawn. One even snapped. It felt like too much for them—to leave behind what they had adapted to, even if it no longer served them. I found myself negotiating silently with a particularly large plant that seemed to resist the very thing I thought it needed. It was as if it said, “No. I belong here. Don’t make me bigger. I was safe in the smallness.”
And I wonder now: will it survive? Or will its resistance to expansion be stronger than its instinct to grow?
There’s a metaphor here—one too alive to ignore.
What Kind of Tomato Have I Been?
As I reflect further, I begin to ask myself—what kind of tomato plant have I been at different points in my life?
There have been seasons when I’ve lived confined within small, reused plastic pots. Times when the environment felt limiting, recycled, or simply too small for the roots I was growing. And yet, I stayed—out of comfort, familiarity, or fear of the unknown.
There were other times when I dared to be planted in expansive soil, when I braved the weather and the unpredictability of the elements because I felt ready to grow into something larger. I have known both states: the containment of safety and the vulnerability of expansion.
Trusting the Growth
Right now, I find myself in a space of readiness again. I am still healing, still recovering from past events that shook me deeply. But I am also allowing those events—and my responses to them—to become compost for the next stage of growth. I take full responsibility for my part in what unfolded, and I honour the process that is still working its way through me.
There is something sacred in this in-between space. It teaches me that everything ends, and everything begins. We are never meant to go back. Even clinging to the present too tightly carries the risk of injuring what we might become.
I am learning that readiness is not the absence of fear. It is the quiet acceptance of change, and the courage to grow anyway.
Dreaming of Harvest
Maybe I’ll get some delicious tomatoes. I used to love eating my Dad’s tomatoes every year—sweet like winey juicy plums, honestly…so delicious that they’ve kind of ruined tomatoes for me ever since. No shop-bought tomato, whether it’s from a bargain supermarket or a fancy organic place, has ever quite measured up.
Nothing tastes like a homegrown tomato. It’s as if the effort, the love, the care, and the time all add to the sweetness. Sliced with a bit of salt and a drizzle of olive oil, maybe alongside some burrata or garlicky sourdough—or even just plucked off the vine and eaten like a peach. You can’t beat it.
Worst-case scenario they’ll be some spectacular green tomatoes to do something with and the verdant smell of the green leaves to delight in.
Growth and courage to grow.
That’s my simple dream for now and the Autumn.