My mother speaks to plants.
I don’t mean this in the cliché sense of the phrase, “plants are people too!” but as a literal statement. Surrounded by the spindly branches and twisted thorns of our suburban garden, she kneels down, fingers gently grazing the softened edges of thyme, basil, and sage, communicating with an unknown and forever surreptitious “plant spirit.”
Although my freshmen year at a small, liberal arts college rendered me more accepting of unique perspectives, I’d be lying if I said her supposed “plantspiration” hasn’t been the center of countless dinnertime jokes. Seated around the day’s harvest of green beans, eggplant, and broccoli rabe, we smile as she discusses the mystical powers of incense smudging, laughing lightheartedly at her spirited promotions for flower nightmare remedies and the nutrition-packed powers of Purslane.
Yet a deeper, more “accepting” part of myself knows that her intensive love for plants comes from a place of truth. I think my stepdad knows it too. I watch him, hands dark from weeding under the sweltering August sun, eyes focused as he unearths vegetables that compliantly become unsung sources of our 7:30 gatherings; he acts with a kind of soundless patience that can only be given to something alive, something deserving of deep respect and unexplainable admiration. So when my mother’s voice deepens, filling the silence to explain how “plants have far more power over us than we do over them,” I slowly begin to believe her.
But just as an afternoon cloud blankets garden leaves in darkness, that same silence can be filled in other ways. On recent nights, the handcrafted salads and sautéed cabbages disappear under the overcast of darker subjects, forgotten beside today’s contentious reality. My sister’s eyes narrow as she weeds absently through her leafy bowl and expresses an undying hatred for Donald Trump, my stepdad pushes his handcrafted creation aside to join the chorus of shootings and police brutality with everlasting counterpoints. My mother creates her own silence, collecting the plates like dried flower petals and planting them forgotten in the sink.
I understand the importance of conversation. Learning to navigate political thorns and public strife can only be achieved through honest, and at times argumentative, discussion. But sometimes the thorns catch at our skin, scratching and scraping until we become entangled in the briar patches of our self-watered hatred. Maybe there is no hope, maybe we’re bound to struggle under the ceaseless outpour of political controversy, class tension, and global violence; but then again, maybe we’re just not meant to struggle all the time. The only thing I know for sure is that when we sit around the dinner table, plates piled with fruits and vegetables ready to nourish the same bodies that created them, it doesn’t feel like the end yet.
And my mother still speaks to plants. She still talks about herbs and healing and spirits, still looks down at sautéed spinach and Swiss chard with a quiet peacefulness as if to acknowledge the incredible cycles humans are capable of beginning,
And I hope she never stops.
For the instant we overlook the value in what we consume is the instant we stop receiving that value.
Slowly but surely, we risk consuming darker things, the gradual poisons of bitterness and tension that we planted, watered, and weeded with the same hands.
