What if there weren’t infinite joys in life, but particular ones? Not to say we all have the same joys in life, but that there might be a limited number, that we may or may not be alive to. And I don’t mean things we like, but things that spark true joy. I’ll leave it to you to decide what that means, if anything.
The point is, I have discovered the joy of growing - growing plants from seed. ‘Discovered the joy’ underplays it; it is more like a revelation. It is like when someone falls in love with someone they have known their whole life and remarks, they were standing right in front of me!
I have lived and loved alongside growers, appreciating their passion and its fruits. One year, my friend grew seemingly infinite perfect cucumbers in our garden, so many our stomachs couldn’t keep up and we gifted them around. Every time we ate one, I was delighted by the unbelievable nature of existence. Of course, they were the fruits of my friend’s labour - but also, they just appeared in our garden, from a tiny little speck!
Now, doing the labour myself, growing only seems more magical. I planted the seeds - hundreds, including cucumbers and forget me nots and kale and sunflowers and plants whose names are new to me - in tiny little cells. Then I went on holiday, and left my cat-sitting friend with watering instructions that I know now were woefully inadequate. When I returned to find the soil lifeless and felt devastated, I knew then that this growing thing held within it the possibility of joy.
Although it seemed hopeless, I decided to keep watering and see. Soon, things began to sprout. Normally slow to rise myself, when I think of the seedlings and the prospect of watering them, I am able to leap out of bed. Even before coffee, I rush to see them, smile at them. I send my friend photos and voicenotes with flora care questions. I am beside myself when she says some seem to be suffering a lack of light, and glowing when she praises their growth.
I do not remember all that much about my paternal grandmother - who had advanced Alzheimer’s the whole time I knew her - but I remember her sitting by the window alone, speaking to her plants with such love, in her warm Guyanese accent. Finally, I have come to know her joy.
