My Burmese neighbor at the community garden for refugees-of-war crouches low and watches me water. She shows up almost every time I’m there, either because she comes here a lot or because she sees me from her apartment next door and comes. She likes to chat but we don’t speak each other’s languages however hard we try so we point and smile and gesticulate a lot. She mostly points to my crops and motions to her mouth to find out if it is something that can be eaten.
My plants have confused her. So many cover crops. So many things I’ve planted that have long stories hard to tell with just gestures. The way they convert nitrogen from the air into a form plants can use. The way they scavenge for nutrients and then deliver them back to the soil when decomposing with the help of microorganisms. Mostly I say dirt or soil or seeds. I point. I smile.
WE SHARE SPACE IN THIS BIG WORLD AND TIME IN THIS LIFE TOGETHER.
It’s nice.
The wheat is just about ready to save as seeds to plant in the fall, as are the peas. Peas on earth, as if that will make a difference (and yet somehow does). The Swiss chard is enormous and showing no signs of quitting, although that is surely soon. Squash plants are spreading, and the cucumbers and green beans are starting their climbs up the bamboo structure my friend and I built. The jalapeño plants are filling out…
