Finally, after procrastinating over it since January, after looking at my dust, barren, forlorn balcony for three months, I got down to it. I sorted out the handful of neglected, nearly-dead plants in my balcony.
I have had this chore — “Sort plants!!!” — on my to do list since the beginning of February. Sorting involved weeding out some plants that I could not recucitate that were in desperate need of being put down, making space for some new potting mix, splitting and transplanting some overcrowded pots, repotting some long overdue pots, reorganising the space in the balcony and lugging all 50+ pots over from my folks’ to ours.
Again, it’s just timing. I’ve been busy, and then lazy, and then it got so hot so fast, just something or the other has been occupying my time, and I have been putting this off because it needed a good chunk of at least a couple of hours on hand and I just didn’t seem to want to do it without.
Eventually, despite all my attempts to plan at this, it happened in the most unplanned way. On a whim, thanks to a burst of inspiration that struck at 6pm yesterday, I dragged out this big long trough-pot that doubles up as my mixing station, and I got to work. Of course I didn’t finish in one go, but I got a lot done. Continued this morning — wondering why I didn’t think to just do it over a couple of days, a couple of sessions, instead of waiting for the opportune (and elusive) window of 2+ free hours.
It felt SO damned good to mix earth and water, to have dirt beneath my fingernails, to get down on my haunches and to plant. I called it a whim, but I remembered again that this is no mere whim. I turn to the earth at very specific times. And I know what this is about. It’s a sign of life. Of the end of a hiatus. Of grounding. Of growing. Of coming back alive, yet again.