I have managed, thanks to the miracle of modern science, to grow some herbs. Not THAT kind of herb, though it would appear that there is bank to be made in that way, but edible herbs; parsley, basil, and chives. These came from a kit that cheerfully proclaimed that the seeds were “guaranteed to grow,” so I figured that I’d thrown away $5 on less, and bought the kit, fully intending to cash in the guarantee, if only for the principle of the thing.
But the little black seeds laughed in my face, and sprouted in their little plastic greenhouse, until the tips of the chive shoots bent at the top where they ran into the plastic of the “greenhouse.” Thankfully, I am well read, so I knew this was a sign that the plants were ready to be moved to a larger pot, but the mechanics of such a task were well beyond me.
“It’s simple,” J told me. This woman thinks dismantling and replacing the blade of a lawnmower is also “simple,” so I immediately disregarded this piece of advice in favor of fretting nervously about my precious plants. Meanwhile, the chives were turning into something out of the Little Shop of Horrors, essentially BREAKING OUT OF the little greenhouse of plastic.
So, like any good gardener, or lesbian, come to think of it, I headed to Homo Depot (WHAT?? That’s what we call it) to find the cutest wee pots for the windowsill. This task was the simplest of the bunch, since shopping is something of a specialty of mine. Home Depot didn’t have quite what I was looking for, so a second trip to Lowe’s was necessary, as was a trip to the local nursery. Listen, people, I like shopping local as much as the next person, but when the local store has a selection that is even more paltry than my cupboard, the big box store it is.
Wee pots, dishes, and potting soil procured, I… well, I’d love to tell you I repotted my herbs, but I was still convinced everything would die immediately the moment I changed one single solitary aspect of their growth. So the potting soil sat in the living room, and the pots in the kitchen, and the chives continued to grow, and grow, and grow, until some wee elf could have used them as a rope swing, had my windowsill been a cliff and the hardwoods below a lagoon.
I did, eventually, get my act together and repot the herbs, after two or three phone calls to J to ascertain that I was doing things in the proper order and with appropriate reverence. The plants made it out of their plastic greenhouse and into ceramic pots, lined up on the windowsill like I’m some sort of green-thumb-home-cook.
And this brings me to my point. Four HUNDRED words later, I know, but you’ve already read this far, why not continue?
These little green shoots- the parsley still so fragile that if I am not careful they fold over in half when I water them- they turn to the sun. Even when the sun is more like an idea behind the white-grey blanket of clouds, I come home from whatever errands I spend the day rushing to and fro to find the basil leaves nodding toward where the sun should be.
Oh, it’s the simplest of wee movements, but these little plants do it every day. Ok, so we all agree that plants are not sentient beings, right? I mean, even VEGANS eat BASIL, right? But there they are, turning themselves to the sun, like they know it’s good for you.
So here’s to turning your head to the sun, even when it’s not apparent beneath the fog. I doubt I spend enough time looking for the sun, even with all this unemployment on my hands. I’ll try to spend more time looking for it, even when it’s pouring. Or when the relocation specialist hasn’t returned either my phone call or my email in four days (but that’s another post altogether).