i can't grow green things. really. well, at least not inside.
my sister once gave me an amaryllis bulb for my birthday- complete with a pot, the right type of dirt- and instructions- from a cute gardening store. i had that mildly panicked feeling when i opened it. because it was dummy-proof and i wanted to do right by it- by her- to have in the center of my table a spectacular amaryllis flower- beaming for all to see, but knowing in all likelihood, it would reflect my horticultural failure- again. the year before my friend gave me a small indoor garden of succulents. again, the right depth of pot, the correct soil combination, the seeds- and of course- instructions. i think i gave it away out of guilt for those poor undeserving seeds that had fallen into my flesh colored thumbs. i have been known to kill a cactus, a spider plant, and orchids- well- those aren't meant to survive inside are they?
i haven't tried much outside- except a lemon tree - when we lived in san francisco. i wasn't just trying for lemons- i wanted to experience the growth of life. i was trying to bring forth. i was trying to lay out a fleece of hope- to prove to myself that i had it in me to be a part of creating something organic- as my womb wasn't cooperating. my lemon tree experiment served as some sort of a test.
i had a beautiful blue pot that sat on my small side outdoor stairwell. i bought the plant when it already had leaves- just no lemons. i watered it, and put it in the sun sometimes and i waited.
i would like to say that i sang to it, talked to it, petted it, groomed it. or that i read about growing lemons, or at least a book on citrus trees, and that i had enough faith to gather recipes for lemon curd or lemon meringue pie. i'd love to say that this plant blossomed into a tree and that somewhere in a courtyard, behind a san francisco apartment building on fell street, is a beautiful lemon tree that blooms constantly and now allows small children to climb in her branches and provides bountiful lemonade.
but.
i didn't do those things. i put that small plant into a pretty blue ceramic pot, and several months later she bore fruit. kind of. one lemon. that was it. one lemon and she was done.
i struggled with how to interpret this.
at the time, i had zoe and about 3 years worth of failed fertility treatments. was zoe my lemon? would there be another one? WHAT DID THIS MEAN??
at the time i was crushed. it was a confirmation that i was somehow, desperately broken. i wasn't just infertile, i was incapable. i was perhaps a murderer of things alive. never mind that i was working 80+ hours a week as a resident in a hospital full of very sick people, keeping them alive, helping them get better. no- the lemon tree somehow meant more.
but years later, i would laugh and see that it actually meant a whole lot of nothing. i think it was a great big lesson in 'be careful with fleeces', be careful with comparisons, stop trying to predict your life, stop trying to figure it out with a test case- and just trust me. a few months after i plucked that lemon, the fertility treatments worked and i became pregnant with jude. a few years after that, along came brynjar- drug free. God smiled and said- 'hey lemon tree girl- watch this!'
now i live in uganda, on the equator, in a land flowing with milk and honey. a land with plenty of rain and good soil and a people who are mostly subsistence farmers. what they know is their land- but it doesn't seem to work well enough to feed them well, or to make a profit.
in luweero, the district of our mobile clinic; where the hiv rates are higher than most and the education rates are lower; where poverty and food insecurity are the norm- little miss non-green thumbs is trying to become a farmer. little miss 'can't grow a pre-potted lemon tree or a prepared amaryllis with instructions' wants to help these farmers farm better.
what?
perhaps it all started with the dirty life. a book about farming and love- and all the combinations that can go with that- loving farming and farming love. finding things- selves and each other- and the land. growing things- selves and others - and vegetables and animals and fruits. digging and planting and harvesting- feeling the earth- knowing the seasons- understanding the power of weather- the need for rain and sun, light and dark- the rhythms and the patterns of nature that are so easy to forget or to ignore in our busy and electrified life.
perhaps it continued with echo. the organization where we did our missions training- where we began to learn about the importance of sustainable farming - the feasibility of growing more with less- of partnering plants and animals- and listening to what those plants and animals need to make more of themselves.
and it further continues with farming God's way . a way to do all this- by listening to the guy who made the stuff in the first place. mother nature, mother earth.
so i'm going to get my life a new kind of messy. dirty messy, because as kristen kimball found out in her upper state new york farming life- it's all linked. for me, here, medicine is linked to health, which is linked to food and hunger and poverty, which here, is linked to the land, to farming it.
so that is why i'm trying to learn a thing or two about growing things. i'm trying to listen to all i can about planting and tending, and growing and not plowing. i'm trying to understand manure, and chicken coops and acreage and symbiosis. it's trying to turn these thumbs green- but it will need to start with dirt under my nails- and some more freckles on my face.
maybe this way, maybe with out the perfect pot, and the correct pre-packaged soil, and the cute gardening store; maybe with out the pressure of symbolism in the fruit production; maybe now- by giving it up- by doing it purely because some people are hungry and in need- maybe i'll finally start to grow green things.
