A Green Thumb, is Unnecessary
A lady with a garden once said, “My thumb is not green, but I do what I can.” The lady’s hand was cracked Texas dirt; the lady’s thumb, never green, a shade of brown Mexican clay. She wasn’t industrious. Not able to produce conveyers of lush greenery. Northerner she was not. She couldn’t craft beauty with just a hazel look, or a snap of piano player’s fingers. Crumbles of sod or red Georgia clay didn’t sprout vigorous ropes of emerald arms and candy apple florets because of some inherited aptitude for photosynthetic progression. She fed her garden with what she had; her inner emotional streams, pores of sunshine, her voice of fertilizing perception. It was enough, for her, for her garden. No need for precise timed sowing, irrigation, or thinning. She cherished her garden; flowers, weeds, and rocked earth. Shrubs grew, sturdy, like children. Their sighs and whispers emanated in CO2; released on an impish toddler’s giggle. Her garden spread. Singular, stunning, hers. No need for Mendel’s gifts. She spoke a privileged tongue to the flowers, shared judiciousness with the shrubs, and scratched the backs of the blades. She poured, from a terracotta pitcher, gracious musings. She did what she could, with what she had, and without luck or benefit of a verdant appendage, it flourished.
A lady with a garden once said, “My thumb is not green, but I do what I can.” The lady’s hand was cracked Texas dirt; the lady’s thumb, never green, a shade of brown Mexican clay. She wasn’t industrious. Not able to produce conveyers of lush greenery. Northerner she was not. She couldn’t craft beauty with just a hazel look, or a snap of piano player’s fingers. Crumbles of sod or red Georgia clay didn’t sprout vigorous ropes of emerald arms and candy apple florets because of some inherited aptitude for photosynthetic progression. She fed her garden with what she had; her inner emotional streams, pores of sunshine, her voice of fertilizing perception. It was enough, for her, for her garden. No need for precise timed sowing, irrigation, or thinning. She cherished her garden; flowers, weeds, and rocked earth. Shrubs grew, sturdy, like children. Their sighs and whispers emanated in CO2; released on an impish toddler’s giggle. Her garden spread. Singular, stunning, hers. No need for Mendel’s gifts. She spoke a privileged tongue to the flowers, shared judiciousness with the shrubs, and scratched the backs of the blades. She poured, from a terracotta pitcher, gracious musings. She did what she could, with what she had, and without luck or benefit of a verdant appendage, it flourished.
