Yesterday, I somehow noticed a cement flower pot in a corner of the yard.
I had to get it out of there right in that moment, I could already picture one of the flowers from the yard in it. So I did, after a bit of struggling I got it out; and while managing to sprinkle water all over myself I washed it, then placed it next to the entrance and added the flower pot.
It looks perfect, and is in the perfect spot ;)
It got me thinking though.
All the dozens of plants, flowers and seeds I’ve planted over time, although they are very beautiful and cheer me up beyond measure, are also somewhat temporary.
No matter how many flowers you plant, potted plants are in a way like a life that’s suspended, unnatural, broken from reality.
Because reality is in the ground beneath our feet, not so much in the ground that’s only touched by our fingers and water from a bottle.
While initially I looked at all the work with the pots of plants as a chore on Saturday when I couldn’t avoid Spring cleaning any longer, kneading earth in my hands began to turn into a small ritual.
Into therapy, meditation and connecting with life and with nature. It’s a wonderful feeling.
There’s a whole world woven within the roots, white and fluffy like thousands of feet of cotton.
It made me think of how much I want to grow roots somewhere, even if I’m not yet entirely sure where the perfect spot for me is.