I am amazed. Continuously.
I think the reason I have gotten so verbose about gardening and spend so much time thinking about it is because it is amazing. I could say "creation of God," but my ego is too involved. I want to give credit to myself. Not for creating, but for encouraging growth. Facilitating the beginning. Respecting it all and expressing the appropriate measure of awe to this magic.
I never had a chance to plant my own garden in adulthood until now. I don't have children. I think the combination of those two things keep the novelty inspired in me. If I had a pack of screaming kids hanging on my legs, pooping on everything, I might have lost sight of the glory and wonder with so much noise and urgency around. Plants are quiet. Slow, fast and brief.
There is a big part of me that sits stunned, looking from a distance thinking "I had something to do with that." The same part looks closely at the tiny leaves as they appear between two others. The same part that pokes at the seed hull that is still attached to the tiny stalk pinning the first two leaves together. The same part that turns the pot on a sunny day and watches the little plant turn and flex to face the sun. If I use warm water, sometimes I can watch a tight leaf uncurl right in front of me.
All the same, these beautiful little things don't need my tending. When I go to sleep or run my daily errands, they keep growing and they require little of me. I think that is part of the reason I think about it so much. All I have to do is provide sunlight, water, and something nice to grow in. So simple. At the same time, I know how fragile plants can be. And that as easy as it seems, there is so much wonder in what I don't know that I want to do it right.
I have means now that I didn't have when I had my first garden 2 years ago. So I've done what I can to find nice soil and planting matter mixed together nicely. I bought seeds like any you might find at a store, but I chose brands I know. I held the seeds in my hand and set them in as carefully as I could with my own hands.
I watched.
A challenge in success is the worry it causes.
I planted a bunch of seeds in pots and trays in my apartment, watered them, and put them in the window. Within days some broke the surface and unfolded their heads. They greened up, the stems became sturdy. It was amazing that it happened so fast! But it made me look at the other pots and trays sitting quietly in the window next to it. What did I do wrong? Did I do something wrong? They can't come up all at the same time, they are different kinds of plants. I can't expect them to come up at the same time. But still I wonder.
While I'm trying to manage the teenager plants that are twisting around to catch the sun, I look and the silent soil. I touch it with my finger to test that it is damp. I adjust it's position in the window to catch the best light and I wait.
While the quiet ones wait, I have to move around the teenagers to larger pots, untangling their roots and burying their roots in new, loose, lovely soil. I press the soil in around them like tucking them into bed. I give them a drink of water. And then I go to bed myself. When I wake up in the morning, I check to see if they are OK and if I see them twisting to get to the sun, I know all major needs are met. Nothing to do until they outgrow their new pots.
And I look at the quiet ones inspecting the soil closely for a tiny greenish bump the size of a mustard seed. With the first one I sigh, nod to myself and calm.
But then I refill the empty small pots where the teenagers grew. I shake the seed envelope and thwack it with my finger to knock all of the seeds to the bottom. I tear off the corner, pour them in my left hand, and place them one seed at a time into the waiting soil. I pat them in, water and wait.
I add a label so as all of these seedlings grow and move from one pot to another, I know what I am moving. At a very young age, they all look the same - not the fuzzy haired blue or brown eyed baby, but a stem split into two leaves.
Roundish pair of leaves with a dimple that look like lilly pads means the plant is a brassica. When it grows up, it's going to be something like cabbage. The long, narrow tipped leaves mean the plant is a nightshade and might be a tomato or a pepper. The next leaves that come narrow the list of possible candidates in the roll call of my garden. I really won't know if it's a pepper or a tomato until it's larger. I won't know if it's fruit is supposed to be yellow, red, or green until the fruit is firm and stretching it's skin. So I label them.
Now and as a bonus, the label stake acts like a sundial and I can see how the light is moving across the soil to pass the time. The stake is the anchor I use as a pivot to turn the plant one quarter turn each day so the seedling grows up straight. The label lets me match peppers to peppers and brussel sprouts to brussel sprouts so I can see how similar and different they are.
And while the growing plants wave in the sun, I watch for the quiet ones.
And then one afternoon, I notice a tiny, impossibly slender stem that could be a strand of my hair has broken the surface and stands up straight holding tiny leaves on it's tiny frame. exhale. Where there is one, there is many and over time, I watch it's brothers and sisters arise while I turn them and turn them to help them grow straight while they reach for the sun.
One of the trays looked a bit crowded with little seedlings - so much smaller than the rowdy teenagers were - so I decided to give them their own pots. I filled a plastic party cup with soil, patted it down, and made a hole with an un-sharpened pencil. I use a plastic fork to loosen the soil in the tray as gently as I can holding my breath and gasping with every slip and sign that I might have broken a root. An inch tall above ground, they have long lacy roots and it's obvious I got there in the knick of time. I moved them to their larger homes in threes and fours, patted the soil, and watered them in.
In stores, grocery stores, department stores, convenience stores and hardware stores I can't walk past a display of seeds without slowing down. I refer to my mental list of seeds at home and try to recall my wish list and check the display. I want red cherry tomatoes, but I have my heart set on Sweet 100s which I've purchased as seedlings at the famer's market and have been so good, but they only have Red Currant. I don't know Red Currant so I am suspicious, but I can't walk away without staisfying the itch for red cherry tomatoes.
They tray that held the quiet ones is empty since they've moved into their own pots in threes and fours, so I scoop up some more soil, pat it into the tray, shake the seed packet, tear off the corner, pour them into my hand and lay them one by one into their starter homes. I pat them in and cover them lightly with soil. I water them in, and put them in the window to stare at.
Over and over and over I've done that this year. It seems that every seed I've sowed has emerged and now I am surrounded by plastic party cups with little plants following the passing of the sun across my apartment living room and trays of quiet ones getting so much of my attention by being so quiet.
The rowdy teenagers are nearly a foot long after a week while some quiet ones haven't peeped in two. From trays they went to cups of three and four to cups of one and two while they spring forth looking for the sun and something to climb on. I'm nervous to get them into the ground as soon as possible. All I had to provide was sunlight, water, and something nice to grow in, and they are running out of something nice to grow in.
I regret starting so many different kinds of seeds at the same time because the fast growers went off like fireworks setting the bar so high, then climbing higher and higher so that I worry about them falling. The taller they got, the more intoxicated they look trying to turn towards the sun. They send out tiny tendrils looking for something to hold it up and the moment a tendril touches something, it wraps around it like a baby's fist and holds on for keeps. The tendrils toughen like wire and make tight coils around the thing it's found.
When they are twisting around like this, looking for the sun and something to hold on to, if they touch, they will cling together wrapping their tendrils around each other and shooting their vines up to get higher. I have to be careful so that this doesn't happen in my apartment. It could, and I could deal with it, but moving them together can be tricky. Planting them into the ground is doubly hard. If one fails, the other is still wrapped around it and I have to separate the tangled living from the tangled dead.
Today a dozen tiny green threads have emerged. I've worried after them for weeks, but they seem fine now. I've learned that the density I've planted with previous seeds is too close and I will have to move these tiny ones to their own pots in an inch or two because the roots are so well developed, and so important. Right now, I'd have to handle them with marshmallow tweezers small enough and gentle enough to hold the seedling while I'm tucking it's root into a new plastic party cup.
With all of this going on around me, it's a wonder I can sleep. It's a wonder I can leave the house without running home to check my babies.
And then there is the wild. Sunlight I can't control. Water that isn't tame. Soil that I've tried to make as a nice place to grow as I can - 500 pounds of compost, peat moss, and manure so far. As I move the teenagers outside and the others to follow them, doing my rounds will mean going down twelve floors, through the door that will lock behind me. I'll pass through the plastic mesh fence to check beds where the seedlings reunite and remember they're tray days while they grow. I'll check the water, pull the weeds and sit back in wonder that I had a part to play with this. I'll walk around the building, enter the lobby, wave my passkey in front of the sensor to unlock the door and go back up twelve floors to wait with the babies until I check on the bed outside again.
It's a wonder.
I think the reason I have gotten so verbose about gardening and spend so much time thinking about it is because it is amazing. I could say "creation of God," but my ego is too involved. I want to give credit to myself. Not for creating, but for encouraging growth. Facilitating the beginning. Respecting it all and expressing the appropriate measure of awe to this magic.
I never had a chance to plant my own garden in adulthood until now. I don't have children. I think the combination of those two things keep the novelty inspired in me. If I had a pack of screaming kids hanging on my legs, pooping on everything, I might have lost sight of the glory and wonder with so much noise and urgency around. Plants are quiet. Slow, fast and brief.
There is a big part of me that sits stunned, looking from a distance thinking "I had something to do with that." The same part looks closely at the tiny leaves as they appear between two others. The same part that pokes at the seed hull that is still attached to the tiny stalk pinning the first two leaves together. The same part that turns the pot on a sunny day and watches the little plant turn and flex to face the sun. If I use warm water, sometimes I can watch a tight leaf uncurl right in front of me.
All the same, these beautiful little things don't need my tending. When I go to sleep or run my daily errands, they keep growing and they require little of me. I think that is part of the reason I think about it so much. All I have to do is provide sunlight, water, and something nice to grow in. So simple. At the same time, I know how fragile plants can be. And that as easy as it seems, there is so much wonder in what I don't know that I want to do it right.
I have means now that I didn't have when I had my first garden 2 years ago. So I've done what I can to find nice soil and planting matter mixed together nicely. I bought seeds like any you might find at a store, but I chose brands I know. I held the seeds in my hand and set them in as carefully as I could with my own hands.
I watched.
A challenge in success is the worry it causes.
I planted a bunch of seeds in pots and trays in my apartment, watered them, and put them in the window. Within days some broke the surface and unfolded their heads. They greened up, the stems became sturdy. It was amazing that it happened so fast! But it made me look at the other pots and trays sitting quietly in the window next to it. What did I do wrong? Did I do something wrong? They can't come up all at the same time, they are different kinds of plants. I can't expect them to come up at the same time. But still I wonder.
While I'm trying to manage the teenager plants that are twisting around to catch the sun, I look and the silent soil. I touch it with my finger to test that it is damp. I adjust it's position in the window to catch the best light and I wait.
While the quiet ones wait, I have to move around the teenagers to larger pots, untangling their roots and burying their roots in new, loose, lovely soil. I press the soil in around them like tucking them into bed. I give them a drink of water. And then I go to bed myself. When I wake up in the morning, I check to see if they are OK and if I see them twisting to get to the sun, I know all major needs are met. Nothing to do until they outgrow their new pots.
And I look at the quiet ones inspecting the soil closely for a tiny greenish bump the size of a mustard seed. With the first one I sigh, nod to myself and calm.
But then I refill the empty small pots where the teenagers grew. I shake the seed envelope and thwack it with my finger to knock all of the seeds to the bottom. I tear off the corner, pour them in my left hand, and place them one seed at a time into the waiting soil. I pat them in, water and wait.
I add a label so as all of these seedlings grow and move from one pot to another, I know what I am moving. At a very young age, they all look the same - not the fuzzy haired blue or brown eyed baby, but a stem split into two leaves.
Roundish pair of leaves with a dimple that look like lilly pads means the plant is a brassica. When it grows up, it's going to be something like cabbage. The long, narrow tipped leaves mean the plant is a nightshade and might be a tomato or a pepper. The next leaves that come narrow the list of possible candidates in the roll call of my garden. I really won't know if it's a pepper or a tomato until it's larger. I won't know if it's fruit is supposed to be yellow, red, or green until the fruit is firm and stretching it's skin. So I label them.
Now and as a bonus, the label stake acts like a sundial and I can see how the light is moving across the soil to pass the time. The stake is the anchor I use as a pivot to turn the plant one quarter turn each day so the seedling grows up straight. The label lets me match peppers to peppers and brussel sprouts to brussel sprouts so I can see how similar and different they are.
And while the growing plants wave in the sun, I watch for the quiet ones.
And then one afternoon, I notice a tiny, impossibly slender stem that could be a strand of my hair has broken the surface and stands up straight holding tiny leaves on it's tiny frame. exhale. Where there is one, there is many and over time, I watch it's brothers and sisters arise while I turn them and turn them to help them grow straight while they reach for the sun.
One of the trays looked a bit crowded with little seedlings - so much smaller than the rowdy teenagers were - so I decided to give them their own pots. I filled a plastic party cup with soil, patted it down, and made a hole with an un-sharpened pencil. I use a plastic fork to loosen the soil in the tray as gently as I can holding my breath and gasping with every slip and sign that I might have broken a root. An inch tall above ground, they have long lacy roots and it's obvious I got there in the knick of time. I moved them to their larger homes in threes and fours, patted the soil, and watered them in.
In stores, grocery stores, department stores, convenience stores and hardware stores I can't walk past a display of seeds without slowing down. I refer to my mental list of seeds at home and try to recall my wish list and check the display. I want red cherry tomatoes, but I have my heart set on Sweet 100s which I've purchased as seedlings at the famer's market and have been so good, but they only have Red Currant. I don't know Red Currant so I am suspicious, but I can't walk away without staisfying the itch for red cherry tomatoes.
They tray that held the quiet ones is empty since they've moved into their own pots in threes and fours, so I scoop up some more soil, pat it into the tray, shake the seed packet, tear off the corner, pour them into my hand and lay them one by one into their starter homes. I pat them in and cover them lightly with soil. I water them in, and put them in the window to stare at.
Over and over and over I've done that this year. It seems that every seed I've sowed has emerged and now I am surrounded by plastic party cups with little plants following the passing of the sun across my apartment living room and trays of quiet ones getting so much of my attention by being so quiet.
The rowdy teenagers are nearly a foot long after a week while some quiet ones haven't peeped in two. From trays they went to cups of three and four to cups of one and two while they spring forth looking for the sun and something to climb on. I'm nervous to get them into the ground as soon as possible. All I had to provide was sunlight, water, and something nice to grow in, and they are running out of something nice to grow in.
I regret starting so many different kinds of seeds at the same time because the fast growers went off like fireworks setting the bar so high, then climbing higher and higher so that I worry about them falling. The taller they got, the more intoxicated they look trying to turn towards the sun. They send out tiny tendrils looking for something to hold it up and the moment a tendril touches something, it wraps around it like a baby's fist and holds on for keeps. The tendrils toughen like wire and make tight coils around the thing it's found.
When they are twisting around like this, looking for the sun and something to hold on to, if they touch, they will cling together wrapping their tendrils around each other and shooting their vines up to get higher. I have to be careful so that this doesn't happen in my apartment. It could, and I could deal with it, but moving them together can be tricky. Planting them into the ground is doubly hard. If one fails, the other is still wrapped around it and I have to separate the tangled living from the tangled dead.
Today a dozen tiny green threads have emerged. I've worried after them for weeks, but they seem fine now. I've learned that the density I've planted with previous seeds is too close and I will have to move these tiny ones to their own pots in an inch or two because the roots are so well developed, and so important. Right now, I'd have to handle them with marshmallow tweezers small enough and gentle enough to hold the seedling while I'm tucking it's root into a new plastic party cup.
With all of this going on around me, it's a wonder I can sleep. It's a wonder I can leave the house without running home to check my babies.
And then there is the wild. Sunlight I can't control. Water that isn't tame. Soil that I've tried to make as a nice place to grow as I can - 500 pounds of compost, peat moss, and manure so far. As I move the teenagers outside and the others to follow them, doing my rounds will mean going down twelve floors, through the door that will lock behind me. I'll pass through the plastic mesh fence to check beds where the seedlings reunite and remember they're tray days while they grow. I'll check the water, pull the weeds and sit back in wonder that I had a part to play with this. I'll walk around the building, enter the lobby, wave my passkey in front of the sensor to unlock the door and go back up twelve floors to wait with the babies until I check on the bed outside again.
It's a wonder.
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