things that are precious
At the presidio nursery, rows of scraggly seedlings sit on tables, carefully watched as they grow. A silly endeavor if there ever was one: hours and hours put into the intimate, daily work of assisting these individuals in doing exactly what they do on their own.
It is a constant string of interlocking activities, both tedious and wondrous. Keeping a careful eye on where they like to live, even the small ones. Falling down on hands and knees to carefully cup a buttercup blossom. Popping open lush green tufts waving above miner's lettuce leaves to propel incongruent shiny beads into small brown paper bags. Placing a cohort of preserved seed into carefully prepared beds and hoping, hoping, hoping for their future. Moving each baby into its own pot, one with grooves in the sides and holes for air to make sure the roots stay healthy and avoid growing unnecessarily. Scraping moss and weeds from the small circle where each young plant grows, careful not to loose unnecessary soil. Most of the work is watching and waiting for the right time. Trying to tap into what they would be doing, or striving to do, in some patch of ground, without pots or tables or shade cloth or hoses or watchful eyes. Through it all, though, these people are meticulously weaving themselves into the life of each plant.
I find it hard to say whether the plants or the people are getting more out of this exchange, not that it matters. What is clear, when looking at the labels of two inch tall plants to see that they are already years old, is that all this care is creating something unique, valuable, even vulnerable. A relationship. Something precious.
I feel the same fragile little beautiful thing fluttering between my hands in having a sister: a precious something that has been there changing for 23 years. It is there when I take the time to write deliberately. I can sense it when I see kids navigating the mush of the world and especially if I hold their hand while they learn.
In this process, beauty is created through care. You don’t make anything. Nothing is ever completed. You just show up. Then you keep showing up, again and again…and again and again….and again and again. And in that space something grows.
*I have more thoughts on this - maybe I’ll add more later!
*also I understand that there is a lot more to the purpose of restoration work than I am implying, even if I don’t understand all of it. This is just my little interpretation.