Yesterday I finally greened my thumbs. I started with the simple task of transplanting my two outdoor plants (whose names I completely forget. I want to call one of them “crepe myrtle” but somehow I just know that’s wrong) that sit inside a wooden box my old roommate (from 4+ years ago) left behind – it’s an old artillery box he used as a magazine stand. The wooden artillery box sits in the sun all day at the top of my stoop housing two shriveling, thirsty, barely surviving nameless plants.
Over a month ago I purchased a hand shovel and yesterday, I finally put the thing to use, digging the twosies out of their hot box, walking them – dirt covered roots exposed, down the stairs to a shaded area of my front lawn. I dug them fresh holes. Worms balled themselves up to look like rocks, an understandable defense. But I was there to cause no harm. In fact, I probably did them a service, pulling out some random bits of plastic buried deep in the soil. I noticed as I dug the first hole, something sturdy and kind of hard…but not alarmingly so. I cleared the dirt around this hard, stubborn thing to reveal that it was indeed what it felt like – a branch, or a twig of some sort, growing horizontally underground. It had even attempted to spring forth some branches of it’s own. Tiny, leafless branches. I cut the thing. And surely, the branch was branchy. A soft, moist green and tan interior that peeled like string cheese. Where does this tree begin? Is it part of the tall tree that shades this area – even though there’s a good yard of cement between the two trees? And where does it end?
I dug the second hole a small distance away and noticed the underground tree continued. This time I didn’t cut it. I dug around it and let it be. I put my twosies in their new homes and lavished tap water all over them. They seemed to dance in it.
Then I remembered my poor indoor plants: the aloe that was broken off from my grandfather’s larger aloe plant (may he rest in peace. My grandfather, not the daddy aloe plant..I believe that one must still be ticking). The poor cactus has been living without soil or water ever since it got knocked over at a dinner/house party a few seasons back. The dried out thyme and the one standing still-green stalk of basil. I took them all outside, gave soil to the aloe in it’s glorious clay pot, and bunched them all together in a shaded part of the lower stairs and showered them all with Brooklyn’s finest tap water. I talked to them lovingly.
I couldn’t remember the last time I went digging in the dirt. Such a fantastic thing to do. I went for a walk, observing my neighbors and their gardening tactics. A bed. An L-shaped bed is what I need for my twosies…threesies…seventeensies. And maybe I’ll get some sunflowers to greet us as we enter the outside world. They’ll fill the artillery box with glee.
My five plants. They’ve each got strong roots. They’ve seen some good seasons and some really tough ones. But as long as they’ve got water, air, sunshine and fertile ground…there’s hope. The whole botanic experience got me thinking about soil, earth and fertile ground. Am I fertile ground? If I plant a seed of song, of love, of strength within me…will it be able to grow? If I give it air and water and sunshine…will it grow?
Plants can provide the greatest lessons on love.
