On Watching Stuff Grow

The last couple of summers I've taken advantage of having a full-sun balcony to grow cherry tomatoes. I like choosing the small plants and then transplanting them to a bigger pot with better dirt. This summer, better dirt - which sounds like an oxymoron - meant mixing in a bag of earth that came with manure already mixed in. What a stroke of genius! For about a buck more, your potting soil comes complete with cow poop. Someone told me that adding crushed eggshells to the mix was also a good idea, so in they go. Pansies, or what's left of them after the squirrels have had their way, a temperamental hibiscus that sprouts both yellow and pink blossoms, a basel plant and a couple of other varieties I can't remember round out my mini-garden. All to say, tending to and watching them (mostly) flourish gives me a great sense of satisfaction. I like the fact that they need my tending to, but not so much that it feels like work. I like that I can water them, deadhead them now and again, and that the rest is out of my hands. It's like watching spring buds burst uncontrollably after a long, grey winter - you wouldn't want to force that genii back in the bottle even if you could. (Have your way with me springtime, work your magic!) Watching the changes that take place in my summer plants slows life down to a pleasant pace. Growing something feels like I'm contributing something good, albeit it on a tiny scale, to the world. At a time when violence, cynicism, rhetoric or celebrity banality feels pervasive - and strangely fascinating at times, I'm sorry to admit - there's something timeless, tender and hopeful about helping something along as it grows.