Fern

On a narrow balcony, a sallow fern grew out of a plastic pot. The balcony had no door; instead, it ran along the side of a building, accessible by two windows. From the outside, it looked like they opened inward and not very far. I imagined the renter, or the owner, purchasing the fern, young and verdant, placing it on the balcony to make the building inviting. I imagined, too, the accumulated weight of passing days that obscured the needs of the plant. Upon initial recognition, they would have tried watering it, bringing it back to life. Too far gone—instead, the fern was left forlorn in the shade to wilt and die. 

No. 056

Disposal

An overturned Christmas tree juts out of a garbage can in the middle of April. I give them the benefit of the doubt: it can be easy to lose track of time amid everything else. In haste they left the string of lights and garland that shimmered in the spring sunlight. An uncanny shiver runs down my spine: I wonder where the April Christmas trees are in my life. Perhaps it’s too late to dispose of them.

No. 044

On Patience

All around me the sound of ticking clocks. An alarm set, a goal established, a timeline created. In this constant time-awareness a pressure builds within me. It’s in this way I am always impatient. I’d resolve to remove myself from this time crunch, but I wouldn’t know where to begin.

No. 035

Cultivation

Still the plants need water. Early spring hits Los Angeles and dries out the soil. Through winter: dormancy; then with the heat the promise of renewed growth. I’d been neglecting them, and could see in the slight browning leaves signs of parchedness.

Some for five, six years I’ve cared. They argue plants have no feelings, but tending them I’ve found a common language with mine. I can intuit when they need light, when they need water, when something is wrong. I know, too, that the vibrations in the room, my emotional register, the music I play, the mood of the dog, all the things that build the energy of life impact them too.

I’d like to own property. I’d like to plant a tree. I’d like to watch it grow. I’d like to lie on my death bed and look out at the tree ten, twenty, thirty feet in the air and know that it was there because of me, and that I sustained it, and that after my passing it continued. There’s a sense of the future in planting a tree. I’d like to cultivate the future.

Around the world moments of despair send a numbing shockwave and seem to pause time. History bends and suddenly there is a before and there is an after. And still the plants need water.

No. 023