Green Thumb: I feel a way, oh why?
I am envious of people who can grow and sustain plant life. Often, I marvel at the beauty they cultivate and sometimes I want it for myself. Rarely do I honor the work those people have put in to sharing this beauty with the rest of the world.
I want the brilliance of a colourful, diverse, garden of life without ever having done the work of learning how to cultivate and sustain such a garden. I want to be lauded for giving back to this planet without ever having picked up a gardening tool. Even worse, without ever putting my hands in the soil. I wonder. Why do I feel this entitlement? Why don’t I want to do the work?
Well, I’m busy.
Well, I really don’t know how.
Well, no one taught me.
I don’t really want to get my hands dirty now.
Now, I’m not a total failure. There was this time my husband bought me a beautiful orchid after we had a fight and it was such a lovely gesture that I worked hard for almost an entire year to take care of it. I knew it was important to him and I wanted to show my appreciation. I followed the instructions exactly as printed; three ice cubes every week. I even asked colleagues and friends for how they care for such finicky plants. I thought about chatting with my local florist but I never actually did. But I did think about it.
When the orchid bloomed, I proclaimed loudly my success. Quickly forgotten were the encouraging words of those who provided guidance when I was desperately wringing my hands. Thirsting to do this work that others made look so easy.
Despite my scheduled regimen of watering the orchid, after a while it began to wither. It failed me. Why?
This latest betrayal filled me with bitterness; regardless of how well-intentioned I was, the plants just don’t cooperate with me. I want them to grow and flourish. I want to admire their beauty. I want to say I did this.
I wish someone would just grow beautiful things and give them to me.
I start to crave, and in a frenzy gather up all the plants I see. I rip them out by their roots, snip off their blooms, pluck all their fruits. I grow frantic in my quest to possess them. No plants are safe now, not my neighbours’, not my friends. I take pictures of them and post them on my Insta. I fill feeds with them. Proud and arrogant in what I have accomplished.
If only I had walked out into the garden.
Knelt on the ground.
Dug my hands into the soil.
If only I had worked with my hands.
Endured the cuts and callouses.
Cultivated the land with love and joyful labor.
If only I had done the work of being a gardener.
