Plants and the joys of small dirt clumps

In the past few years I have finally come around to being able to grow plants. Most of my life when I picked up a plant at the store or wherever you could almost hear it scream out as if it had been plucked up by the worst horror movie monster ever. True, I was the Black Thumb, terror of all things plantlike.

Usually a plant would enter he house, linger for a bit, start to fall to pieces and finally, wither and die and only then would I notice and go "Oh yeah, I got a plant a while ago didn't I?".

Then it was the fun of trying to keep a plant alive sporadically when I noticed it. Water every alternating Thursday that ended in a 7 if I remembered, cutting off bad bits and finally trying to salvage sections by rooting them in water that would slowly evaporate to make their torment longer.

Last year a shift came somewhere, not exactly sure how or what changed the tide but I wanted plants in the house again. I got 2 or 3, did my best to tend them and keep them going and voila! One lived!

But it was an important one! Yes, the other two fell to the ravages of dry soil and a hungry cat, but one *lived*! It was amazing, I almost killed it and yet it sits on a high shelf right now with a bunch of greenery I never expected to see on it again. So it started off ... plants... for me again.

I have gone overboard I think, just a bit, maybe. But I have 4 successful house plants now that I trim for rootings to keep them in check, not to keep them alive and strangling. I discovered the fun on green onions, when you get one from the store and use the greens simply save a bulb and place in water by a window, the greens grow back! Plant magic! I have a porch that is filled with pots of this and that and the other. I have herbs and lavender and even some flowers this year. They are actually growing things. The feel of soil under fingertips is just such a connection to the earth even in a little way and to have it right there at any and every moment is amazing. To watch seeds sprout into actual plants and not into feeble things that fall over and die in a few days is the best type os magic I can imagine. Growth and sustenance and visual power for me.

I adore the look of the sunflowers as they are popping up, breaking themselves free of this shell, hard and safe it protects them until that moment they can shuck it off and reach for the sun.

Maybe this is just a version of me I am coming into. I am reaching for my sun. I am casting off the shell. Maybe it's just a cool thing to watch too. I can run with either idea.

One shoot on the lavender is becoming, turning from plant into flowering strand. Knowing this will be the first and that it's the one winning the race to grab the spotlight. I adore lavender and I am hoping this year to have enough of these flowering stalks to make myself a ribbon tied lavender wand again, they smell so sweet and capture the scent of summer in a bit of pretty for me. They may wind up to be too few or too small as they were last year, but then again, it just means watching another year go by and having them thrive for longer. It works.

So I will watch and wait, the african daisies erupted, I might have to make choices and thin them out a little. I hope not, I would love a splash of color wrapped around each other as they grow. I do know sometimes the choices have to happen though, you have to thin out to let some thrive sometimes.


So that is my little bit of magic in life that crept up over me through the past few years. No smashing blaze of enlightenment happened, it was a snails journey, slow and unnoticed until it happened and the switch from the Black Thumb of Plant Horror has become a container gardener, might not be the greenest thumb around but it's the one I got.

Bus rides....

There is a lull in riding the bus, it steps you out of life for the time it takes to get from point a to point b. It's been years since I had to ride on a daily basis or for transportation to the things I wanted. Yet, it stays with you, this feeling that a bus ride is time away from life, though it may be taking you towards or away from things that are life itself.

The wait, the ever present wait, whether you show up right on the dime or sit there staring reading the schedule and trying to mesh route numbers and Hourly:35's with reality. That special form of anticipation that only the glance down the street can create. Did it come and I missed it or wait, do I see it there? No? Darn, okay when's the next one? Those few seconds are possibility and past wrapped into one.

But if it's not immediately there, you have to suspend yourself into a stance of waiting. Either on a bench (if available and present) or find a spot to lean, sometimes even hunkering down against the elements to be right there when the next one approaches. These moments can be dragged into an eternity or simply spent lost within thought. I miss these moments at time, not in the rain and cold mind you, but on a mild day with a bus ride after work is done the few minutes of looking forward to home before the crush of the buses interior accepts you for your fee can be simply wonderful. You can imagine anything about the people and buildings around you, this has always been a playground of the mind for me. That man in the dark long coat looking frustrated could be *anyone* in your mind. A spy who regal Rolls went kaput and is desperate to hop aboard to make the 20 block trip into the downtown area. Okay, so most likely not true, but hey. Even the most mundane though, a simple man, done with work, worried for schedules and children's bedtimes and not missing the time he wants to be home, more realistic I bet and endearing in it's own way. The woman humming softly to herself could be a musician caught in an act of creation by the ones who pick up the tune and carry it forward into their own nights with them. I always have enjoyed trying to fit a story into the person to pass that time.

Then the time is up, always too soon or too late, it's rare that a bus has perfect timing you know. The release of air brakes a sigh as it knows it's work is nowhere near done and will never be truly over. Doors that whoosh open and release whatever the opposite of outside is, cool in summer though maybe only by a degree or two or that warmth of bodies and heat for winter that make jumping up and in almost a treat after the wait. I soft beeps and chimes of cards and coins flying through and you flash your whatever and take the long look down the bus to find a seat for yourself. Personally I want either the back or the front, somehow, sitting in the middle is putting yourself right on the average. Everyone seems to want the seats halfway down, halfway up depending on perspective.

I want a spot I can rest a forehead against glass, that is my only preference. Where I can look out at the streets flying by me in a rush or pick them out one by one as they creep along and disappear behind the line of sight and are gone. It always seems as all the interesting people who aren't the middle types gravitate to front... or back... and join there in an oasis. A refresher from life, sometimes talkative and exuberant as they chatter with a friend or heck, with anyone close by.

Every so often a thought forms in my head that you could listen to the lull of voices, coughs and shifts of bodies on a bus and they might just for a moment form and create truths to be whispered just to you. Then something shifts so fast, so quick that before the thought of it is formed you lost the thought and are back to looking out the window, towards a destination or going away.

Mostly a bus ride is routine, you read a book, text someone, try and distract yourself from the fact you are riding a bus and are at the mercy of it's whims. The lurch of stops and starts moves your body in a rhythm not of your own making and you can roll with each one or choose when to tense and try to still yourself in them. There are small things here and there that make it unpleasant every so often though I have found that the rude and obnoxious tend to be over ridden by the smallest of kindnesses. The day someone gave free tickets into an event, simply because they saw I had small children with me, meant I could get them a treat instead of simply going. The child who gave up a seat for an elderly person simply because they looked like a grandma. The smile of someone friendly and inviting as you sit down that strikes up a conversation you may never get to finish since a drop off will interrupt at some point.

I will never say I would willingly choose the bus over all other forms of transportation, it does have it downsides and moments where all you can think of is the fact it will be over at some point. It has it's moments though.

There are odd moments where a bus becomes a conjunction where stolen seconds out of the rest of life combine, a moment of clarity, reflection or imagination can take the mundane and turn into your own private magic. These sparks can't be found anywhere else, other sparks for the walk at dusk or the car ride's of life exist in unique bubbles as well, I want to take all my sparks and let them dash and play with each other and yet... each one needs it's own moment.

I loved riding the bus and I hated it as well and yet, there is not one bus ride I have ever regretted taken, even the daily routine ones that took me from the things I wanted for a time out of each day. I am glad to not be dependent on it anymore though and have enough distance to look back and say that bus rides gave me a space to create in my head every day, whether or not I ever wrote down those stories, poems and randomness in thought. Still, there is nothing like the feel of cold glass, forehead resting, city flying by in jerks and shifts of color outside as you travel the roads within.