The Hobby of Life

How to explain plant magic and its effect on me? How to explain the beauty I see in all of the greenery? The expanse of the wild fern, the litter of tree limbs after a great storm. I often look to the Earth for my inspiration for what is inside. I often find that the plants speak more truth than I see from people in church pews. Their whispers of patience, of growth, of human connection to the planet. I look to them for the answers I cannot reach in myself. I ask how the rose is so beautifully formed in order to become a symbol of love. I work in the dirt, I work in the sun. I live for the plants, I live for the earthworms doing their due diligence. They provide for us, despite being fodder for the fish in the water. In this I embrace what the Earth gives, is also what it takes away. I am shown that in order for a bloom to thrive, sometimes it must be cut back to the root. Sometimes it must start all over again in order to provide the beauty we barely notice on our way to work.

It is the plants that I work with that help me remember to be gentle when picking a petal. It is the plants that show me how to flow gently while being rooted in reality. I have worked for the Earth since I was a child. Digging in the dirt was how I knew the wild. It's beauty only tolerated the best hydration, the fertile soil, the dandelion who's seeds would never spoil. I worked to take care that the tree I climbed loftily was fed with words of wisdom and reverie. When I wash the dust off of the leaves of the philodendron, I recognize my power. When I make sure to keep the peace lily in partial sun I am reminded that I need to respect my own darkness.

My favorite hobby is more than a hobby. It is showing the land that I live on that someone is listening. It is showing the sun the reason why the grass glistens. It is all to keep growing, it is all to keep showing the world that in spite of harsh conditions, even the cactus is lovable. Even, it seems, the plant that was never allowed to grow can have a second chance, when treated by the right hands. This is my hobby, this is my retreat. To embrace the fragrance of the flower with the musty smell of the manure. To show that life can be both joy and toil. To plant is to take care, to grow is to be fair, and to bloom is to smile from ear to ear. The garden has shown me these secrets and now I will write them here. To keep this to myself is not enough, I must show the beauty of planting to the people I love. When I think about all of my memories, the simple ones are the key to my success. If it hadn’t been for working in the dirt with my bare hands I wouldn’t know how worthy they were. I wouldn’t know how precious those moments spent baking in the sun plucking petunia’s would be for me. The sticky sweetness of the petunia reminds me of the summers I didn’t want to be alive, but I was anyway. I was and I remained anyway. If I hadn’t been able to take care of something other than myself I would have given up. I never knew how to factor my needs and it was working in the garden with the leaves that showed me my true value. I may never be CEO someday, but it’s ok because of all the root systems that continue to thrive after my green thumb.