July 30, 2012
There is something primordially satisfying about growing plants from seed. Their fragile beginnings as tiny sprouts, then seedlings, so endlessly imperfect and variant in size and shape, tug a bit at one's heartstrings. It is in their tiny-ness that my looming largeness is reflected back to me: my less-than-gentle watering techniques, the accidental over watering, and the strength of my fingertips upon touching (and then bending) a newly-formed leaf are not lost on me. This microcosm of plant and human life, the relationship between cultivator and cultivatee, is frenzied, blurred--sometimes I feel like I am the one being taught, cultivated into a gentler, more patient soul.
Growing plants from seed takes time, and time is something that, as a whole, our modern world highly values, but also fears. This is aptly shown in the collective yearning for more time in a day, a year, etc., and conversely, in the collective fear of aging. Watch a butterfly flit back and forth from flower to flower, yard to yard. Step outdoors and inhale deeply; watch the ever-growing plants on your windowsill. Time momentarily, bravely, stands still.