Trev recently told me that plants, when experiencing trauma such as being picked or stepped on, emit a noise, and at an inaudible frequency of course, they cry out in pain.
Note to self: 1) research everything Trev tells me extensively and 2) perform psychological wellness exam on boyfriend.
I am sure, at least, that plants are living things and thus need care and affection. Because of this, I try to water every day. Now that the monsoon season in D.C. seems to have passed and stepping outside makes you want to jump in an ice bath set up for you outside during the month of January, the garden needs the water. Most days, I do this with the help of my awesome boyfriend, who has the wellbeing of my garden at the top of his priority list, and my trusty iced tea pitcher.
You know how time gets away though. Weeds grow, climbing moonflowers start choking their neighbors, sweet peas fall over because they have no trellis, the kittens you hoped would be inflicted with stunted growth suddenly think it’s funny to look like nearly full grown cats …
So this afternoon, I went out to the garden to poke around and see what needs to be done for the first time in weeks. I never got past weeding. Head down, I pulled weeds without thought of the lives lived, like a coldblooded killer. As a kid, I made honeysuckle bouquets and fairy houses, had roly poly bugs as pets and crusaded for dandelions when I noticed my neighbors killed hundreds with their lawnmowers. My, how dreams get crushed and people change.
Today as I studied the wildflower garden, I had a fleeting panic that I might actually be growing a plot of clover. The wildflower garden, dense and raucous by name, had me stumped as I squatted down and searched for a tree sprout or spiky leaf, or the weird grass weed that I can’t get rid of in that area of the yard (I even doused it with vinegar before I planted, and it’s still there). No wildflowers have bloomed yet, but I have sprigs of what look like cattails and some lithe, grassy things.
Basically, I have what looks like a field my grandparents would relegate the cattle to.
At some points in my weeding of the wildflowers today, I stood up brandishing a long plant with roots dripping soil only to realize when I threw it in a pile that it might have grown into something really nice. Is this remorse I’m feeling? So Capitol Hill: if you were listening carefully this morning, the weeds and my plants were screaming extra hard, as they felt the pain of being uprooted and discarded into a pile before they even got a chance to show off their finished product.