Planting Seeds

This resurrection business is a tough gig. But I’m not claiming to be the second coming of anything so I think three weeks to bounce back is commensurate with a messianic three days. While it’s not been a biblical time, unlike the rain we’ve had ALL WEEKEND LONG, it’s been a Dickensian three weeks. Best and worst and everything in between. Taking a cue from the weather I’m going to play with garden metaphors as they’re so very fertile. Can’t stop, won’t stop.

In my teens I was gifted a spider plant, one of the hardiest houseplants. Yes, I made it suffer. On accident. I believe it was rescued from my care before complete annihilation. By the time I got my first apartment in LA I had cultivated a respectable shade of green in the digits. I wasn’t bringing orchids back to life but my plants thrived. I even had a couple trees; a dwarf Meyer lemon that I never expected to bear fruit and a ficus. My goals were modest, keep them alive and green. When I progressed to a house with a back yard, I envisioned an abundant garden with organic herbs and produce, instead it was a spider plant redux. Tending a garden, metaphorical or literal is not simple work. I killed a guava tree. The avocado tree bore fruit only the squirrels could reach. I watched seedling after seedling be devoured by moles and squirrels. The only thing I managed to maintain was some lemon verbena and a few varieties of mint.
Now I recognize that I hadn’t done the homework of assessing the environment or the conditions. I was just a cowboy with a spade and trowel, dirt flying every which way. I just wanted to grow shit! Low hanging allegory warning; how can I reap the rewards of a tropical garden if I plant my seeds in the desert?

My New York apartment is not ideal for plant friends — nor is my peripatetic lifestyle. But it’s that season in the grocery store where little cups of dirt with fragrant leaves beckon. I cannot resist the allure of fresh herbs. My kitchen window sill gets enough light I reason. Besides the little basil plant was cheaper than the plastic box of herbs. I was immediately vindicated when the leaves elevated a simple pasta with blistered tomatoes and shallots; I mean, I was inspired to blister as opposed to merely sauté. Next I ‘top-chefed’ an omelet with ribbons of green. And then life. I made an impromptu trip to Toronto to stand in for my sister at my nephew’s Mother/Son Graduation brunch. Our paths ostensibly crossed while we were both delayed in Newark, sis Milan bound at Terminal C while I languished in Terminal A. Forty eight hours later I returned to a pot of shriveled leaves. The plant was beyond resuscitation. The dried leaves were inedible. Disappointing but not surprising. I don’t begrudge a second of the seven hours it took to make the 90 minute flight. My sister was able to attend to work with peace of mind that her son wasn’t missing out (having missed so many other experiences due to the pandemic), and I was gifted a memorable morning with my nephew. Fruits of the family garden. With every memory more seeds are planted. How will they blossom? Only time can reveal the answer. The fruitful events my sister, nephew and I experienced are attributed to a seed my father planted decades ago. He cultivated the importance of tending the family garden. Our’s is a small plot and needs thorough care. But we can reap great things. In Jamaica we say, we likkle but we tallawah. No direct translation but ‘small yet mighty’ will suffice.

I have doubled down on the window sill. There is a small flourishing mint plant and another struggling basil. I’m hopeful. I’m also focused and doing my homework. There are multiple seeds I’m germinating this spring. And so I am tending my little plot with care, attention and patience. How we do small things is how we do all things. Life is in the details.