There are over fifty pots of flowers in our front yard. I know. I just watered them. There are 5 Gerbera Daises (none of them currently blooming), many geraniums, spider plants (whose babies I planted yesterday) and everything that likes hot, hot, hot. It is an oasis in the desert.
It isn't so much my love for the plants that embarrasses me. It is my deep attachment that makes me feel exposed and that I hesitate to admit.
I have felt these feelings since before I can remember. My first conscious awareness of plant attachment was watching my father turn hollyhocks into dolls. Unlike my sister, it wasn't the doll that fascinated me but the plant.
I began to get more and more involved. First it was being allowed to water my father's tomato plants. I took on the responsibility perhaps much too seriously for a 6 year old.
By the time I was 8 my own vegetables were Champions at the County and State Fairs. 4-H gave me a place to shine. I also at this time had an enormous strawberry bed and a zinnia farm. At least, that's how I thought of it.
My mother and father had minimal interest in gardening, growing fruit trees, or yard work in general. My maternal grandmother, however, was a different story entirely. She lived for her gardens and now I know they fed her soul.
I eased my way into working with her when my big brother went to college. I was 9 years old. I was given the job of mowing my grandparent's yard. This was no small yard. There was a steep bank across the entire front yard, lots of flower gardens in the back of the house including a peonie garden, two huge vegetable gardens behind the garage, an iris bed, a chicken yard and an large orchard.
My grandmother gave me 50 cents a week for cutting it. My grandfather would come home from lunch, see me working and say, "what did you go and do? Shave it?". And then he would give me 50 cents with the clear understanding that we would not tell Grandma.
I was passionate about how the yard looked and painstakingly trimmed around everything by hand. It usually took me two days to finish the job to my standards. This gave me the chance to watch my grandmother work with her flowers. She wasn't willing to teach me outright--but she couldn't keep me from watching. I learned, among other things, how to weed, trim, plant, transplant, divide bulbs, prepare soil, water and lots of things I can't now remember.
My grandmother was silent most of the time and gave me no indication of what she was feeling. I was an overly-sensitive kid who could read everybody but her. Maybe that's why I worked so hard to please her. She just acted as if I had merely met her expectations. I needed some feedback which I began to get by taking care of the yard over the entire summer.
Every place I have lived has pulled me to planting both inside and out. Taking care of plants nurtures me at a deep level and brings to life something in me more than anything else. I maybe don't feel embarrassed about it as much as protective. I have moved many times and have had to leave many "plant" friends behind. It makes sense to keep my love and affection for them to myself.
I'm writing this while sitting on the porch swing surrounded by all the plants. Each one my eyes fall upon brings me a different delight. I have made the decision to tell the world about my attachment to plants. It is about sharing my life lesson about letting go of the old and opening to the new. My soul softly speaks.
