Saturday, March 30, 2019

singing to the basil

We bought a basil plant from Whole Foods, and I guess this is a cautionary tale about buying pre-planted basil, because this little guy is not thriving. Within 48 hours, he had wilted and begun to develop that dark tinge around the edges of his leaves—symptomatic of overwatering—while at the same time, growing crunchy and dry, as though we were baking it in the sun.

I have moved him to the front window, which gets the most possible sunlight from the street, I have watered him and sung to him, breathed out carbon dioxide onto his leaves. The plant is hanging on, and signs of fluid green growth abound, but I am befuddled at why the process of keeping this small intruder alive for just a fortnight seems so precarious.

It strikes me, as I dump water into his soil, that living is really such a chore and trial. It takes all our energies, and still we're not quite expert at it. It's a rum little game, and we've certainly not mastered it.

This poor little basil plant is just doing his best, struggling to make some photosynthesis with the little sunlight and water he's been dealt.

And I think, as I uncurl my hearts' own overwatered, blackened leaves, and douse water on her brittle stem, my own heart is just doing her best, like the rest of us.

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