On gardens, and growing things.
What things seem like, and what they are.
I like to garden. Or, I like the idea of gardening. The ~aesthetic~ of it. I’d like to be seen in semi-crumpled clothes, softly digging a trowel into rich-looking soil. I’d like the plants around me in colour-coordinated pots, dainty trellises trailing on walls, all leaves evergreen all year round.
The first time I tried growing a plant—a store-bought coriander—it died in 5 days. I had a marigold plant after that, which sprouted one tiny flower (as advertised) and promptly said goodbye. I then managed to assassinate a cactus before I took a break from killing more vegetation.
I stopped growing plants after that for a bit. Turns out it takes a lot for a plant to grow well—simply watering it and wishing on it was not enough.
The first time I brought plants—3 of them—after the cactus fiasco was when I was, for lack of a better word, stabler in mind (albeit only slightly). And I was trying. Trying my best to keep the plants (and myself) alive. On my worst days I learnt to get up and say hello to the little vine sprouting on my bedside. I began to watch every little plant turn its leaves to face the scant sun on those endless winter mornings, I learnt to manage their needs with conscious precision. The neglect that had begun to accumulate in my own life was slowly discarded, as I learnt to inhabit a routine in service of my plants.
When I could finally have a whole garden—when I had the money, time, energy and resources to manage it—it bloomed. It made my house a home. It also helped that I had moved states, and was living in a much sunnier place with a better paycheck, but hell—that is not enough to raise a plant. Or anything.
What I had not anticipated was how messy a garden would be. How uncool and dirty and not-very-Pinterest-y. Everyday I awoke to a new leaf sprouting, and everyday there were also three leaves dying without cause. My money plants refused to live along their designated routes, and sprawled throughout my tiny apartment instead, a whole 11 feet of vine that was constantly getting under my feet and on my nerves. My ferns grew up fresh and healthy and with perfect vitals, and also attracted every tiny insect in a 20 sqm vicinity, and I spent hours every Sunday morning spraying all my leaves with medicine and fighting infestations. The plants were fresh and healthy and luscious, and all my friends ooh-ed and aah-ed when they visited, but I always emerged from my Sunday morning gardening looking like a train wreck, soil on my outside and tired on the inside.
So much of gardening, I realised, was dealing with rot. Greens sprouted and blossomed, yes, but decayed a lot faster. And I had to work harder, wake up earlier and catch bugs faster if I wanted to see my (not very colour-coordinated) garden thrive. But it was real, watching it all grow from baby cotyledons into lush, dense, healthy plants, flowers and all. It was also surprising to see myself, getting out of bed only so I could water them, opening the curtains to let them soak in sunlight, learning to live with dirt, for their sake. And mine.
I think what I mean to say is—life is dirty. And untidy, and messy, and unplanned. It decays more than it blossoms, and there is a lot more rot than Sunday mornings can rein in. I also think that it feels better, much much better, than what it looks like.