Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it whispering, "grow ~~ grow!"
~~~ The Talmud
Oh, yes, I have to water my plants, and make sure they get enough light to eat, and otherwise nourish them occasionally; and maybe I might have give some extra thought and attention to a plant that isn't thriving.
But the oomph for growing is not energy that comes from me. And yet it feels like I've accomplished something by "growing" them ~~ when in fact, a} they grow themselves, and b} the real accomplishment is that so far I've prevented myself from accidentally killing them.
I get so ridiculously excited when I see a sprout, be it either one that has sproinged out of the earth in less than week or one that has taken forfreakin'ever to germinate. I'll call my boyfriend over and point in amazement at a two-inch seedling that miraculously appeared that evening in a pot which that very morning had been empty, or draw his attention to the tiny fleck of bourgeoning green which was the sole vital spark to emerge from a sowing I'd given up on. And I'll say, "look! They're growing!" And he'll say, "yes. They do that. That's what they do."
I'm in awe of that oomph, especially when I think of the amount of oomph I have to expend to live my life. I get so fatigued so easily; I'd love to know where these little seeds get their oomph from.
I've a notion that if I nuture the germination of enough seeds, then perhaps somehow I'll be able to comprehend how they do it, and do it myself. I'll recapture my lost youth and restore my vital energy; my wrinkles will be smoothed away and my skin imbued with a newborn softness; my every inbreath will draw on the zephyrs of spring and every outbreath will be a divine sigh into the nostrils of carbon-dioxide consuming greenery.
But the most likely scenario is that I'll just end up with with a lot of herbs and veggies. Seedlings grow into plants, and I am already scrambling to find room for them all. Some are getting too tall for their shelves; and some are getting too big for their pots, a state which my mum describes as "needing a new pair of shoes." But it's not past the last frost date yet, so I can't just shove 'em outside.
Perhaps it is time to investigate how cold frames & hot beds work.
They tell us that plants are not like man immortal, but are perishable ~~ soul~less. I think that is something that we know exactly nothing about.
~~~ John Muir (1838-1914), Journal, Autumn 1867
Posted by edgar at April 7, 2003 05:43 PM