Ammi Midstokke: The little plants that could
Now that my vegetables are in the ground, their battle for statistically improbable survival has begun. I’ve redoubled my efforts to research the nuances of plant care, including panicked trips to the gardening store with photographs of leaves, requests for soil testing kits, and the acquisition of enough fertilizer to get flagged by Homeland Security.
(Later, I caught the dogs in the plant beds eating the fertilized soil, which actually did lead to explosive threat. It will be at least a week before it’s safe for anything in the house to spark.)
Within weeks of my happy, hearty bushes being gently settled into their new home in curated raised beds with just the right ratio of soil to amendment, they began to sag, or redden, or lean, or just … stop growing. It’s like they heard the mourning wail of my houseplants through the windows and lost all hope before even trying.
I know some of you are thinking, “It cannot be that bad,” but for veracity’s sake let me just say this: Even the mint did not grow.
Determined to try all avenues, I recalled an article I read about five years ago when we were all sequestered to our living rooms. It suggested that naming plants and talking to them can actually improve the health of plants and their owners. I imagine the latter was supported by evidence we were all desperate to converse with anyone other than our roommates and relatives, or any inanimate object that wouldn’t argue.
The authors suggested plants benefit by the reality that humans pay more attention to things we’ve anthropomorphized. Apparently, naming a thing makes us more inclined to feed and nurture it. There’s also some vague scientific evidence that suggests the increased CO2 released by us cooing at and blue-ribboning our mediocre bushes increases their ability to photosynthesize.
Recalling the time I spent the equivalent of a college degree on digging a well because I failed to hire a water witcher, I noted that I am not above magic and pseudoscience to achieve a desired outcome and promptly set to naming my plants.
Things got weird after that. First, it turned into a hearty conversation between the peppers and the eggplants, who wondered if I was culturally appropriating with my use of Latino and Greek names. And for a minute there, I thought the beets were trying to identify as radishes until I discovered I’d just swapped garden labels. In any case, I’d have respected their choice. At the end of the day, they all end up in the same delightful salad.
Our morning waterings have become a safe place for us to have meaningful, if imagined, dialogue about topics that are at risk of severing families and communities. Gardens are, if anything, a place where diversity exemplifies synergy, symbiosis, interdependence. They are also a place of patient listening and inquiry, where I find myself constantly asking who needs what in order to thrive.
When I don’t understand things, it is nature I turn to for contemplation and answers. As the spring plods on, I’ve spent more and more time in the garden in search of something that grounds me back in faith or purpose. Or maybe just a glimpse of hope.
It would appear that both plants and person are improving. The cilantro is eagerly filling out. The peppers are standing proud. Even a tomato bush has little flowers. I cannot say whether it’s the sunshine and fresh air or the open space to think and speak freely, but it seems we’re both healthier. Maybe it’s just the fertilizer.
Mostly, I think it’s because nature is resilient and I am reminded that humans are of nature, too.
Ammi Midstokke can be contacted at ammim@spokesman.com