For most, meditating opens the mind
and centers their thoughts. In the past I have tried, but have failed. I just
could not do it. For me, the clutter and confusion in my mind seems to scream
louder the more I attempt to clear my mind of any distraction—bills, money, food, doctors, clothes, LIFE
but not here—here I am calm. As far back as I can remember, green foliage has
lined the walls of my home almost like vines—terra-cotta pots covered my floors—bare
beneath my feet. The floor is cold, but I welcome the cold—my swollen ankles
and tired feet hate to be inhibited. The soothing sound of water trickling down
the spout of the tin can keeps my nausea at bay—if only for a few minutes. Unfortunately,
if I focus too much on the sound of water making a sound even remotely like I
trickle, I need to use the bathroom. Yet, inside my bubble of silence, I think
only of their wants and needs. Just on the outside of the bubble I smell the
stench of the world. Not all the smells are bad, just loud. But here I am
content, at ease, and free. Most of my plants stand tall, rich with green, free
to expand within their terra-cotta pot.
Here the soil in between my fingers
is soft, comfortable, and familiar—like sand in between my toes at the beach. I
used to hate it in my nails—it was too hard to get out, but when I wore gloves
to stay clean, I missed the feeling of the soil on my skin. Outside everything
is dirty, but I never have enough energy to clean.
Here, the exposed roots are
vulnerable—they depend on me for their care, their food, their water, but most
importantly to handle them with a delicate touch. Leaving them unprotected can
be risky, but how often do you get to see
something like this it its natural state without the aid of technology.
Gently, I place the helpless plant
inside its terra-cotta home already lined with a layer of the its nutrient
enriched soil. I sprinkle just enough soil on top the precious roots allowing
the rich nutrients of the soil to give sustenance to the plant--pacifying my
worries. Giving its home a quit place to take root, I meander from plant to plant
quenching their thirst. I mist water on their leaves. Watering them maybe
sufficient for their growth, but the added care, I believe helps their green to
brighten and their leaves to reach for the ceiling. I notice when they are not
happy. It may be subtle to others, but it is obvious to me. I do not know if it
is these individual plants or plants in general, but I somehow know how they
are feeling. They may not talk back to me, their healthy growth of their green foliage
encased within a terra-cotta pot is a reward for my hard work.
