Intelligent life forms
Regarding one thing leading to another, my one goal for the day was to transplant tomatoes seedlings into larger pots. So, my coffee and I began moving things around in the greenhouse in preparation for the grand transplant. For some good reason, a peregrination around the yard was called for, and I found myself reworking the bed on the south side (why did I go over there?) which led, of course, to watering, and then I remembered I forgot to plant marigolds and calendula, so I hastened to collect tools and seeds and set them on the new deck table so I could hang my laundry out to dry. It was a warm and sunny day.
Such is Saturday. It was mid-afternoon before I got to the transplant project, and I found the tomatoes waiting patiently because they already knew when the transplant time would be. Plants know things already, or at least I hope so because what if our species (warning: do not watch news) is the most intelligent life form on earth? Uh-oh!
For example, a seed is a place where a dormant life force springs forth. A stem in there knows to reach out. Branches and leaves do their thing right on time, and I would never try to, but I couldn’t convince them otherwise– they know what to do, and that’s a good thing – they make flowers, vegetables, grasses, plums and all the rest.
And then… and then… whatever it is that grew to its conclusion will probably bear new seeds, and on it goes, just like in our species except without baseball or Tik-Tok.
The point being my streak of overplanting tomatoes continues unabated, and I don’t know what I would have done without an idle 12-pack box nearby. Fifteen seedlings live in there now, and in about a month, they’ll move to the garden. But who is cleverest – me for repurposing boxes or the plants I transplanted in there? I can’t branch or leaf, but I can repurpose boxes and play guitar. Somebody else made the box, and someone before that invented boxes, and before that a sawyer cut down a tall tree which started from a seed.
This is seed season. I have more seed packets than my basket can hold. I could line up seeds from different brassica varieties on a plate and they would appear very similar, but they each know what they will be without kindergarten or a procedure manual. I have not walked in their shoes to know how they know, and, yes, they don’t have shoes, but intelligence or instinct or something important is in there.
By the way, don’t try to line up brassica seeds on a plate because they roll and hop around in every direction with great fervor, and it takes more than a sheep dog to keep them in place.
Our pal Matshona Dhilwayo said, “Learn from seeds; they don’t die when you throw dirt at them; they grow.” How can I not learn every year during this life-long gardening process, and that does not necessarily mean plants are here to teach, yet every year their generations become more accustomed to this environment. I just garden, I don’t teach. Plants abide my inconsistencies with historical forbearance, and they learn and flower and fruit regardless, so thank you.
Plants pay attention – the lettuce is listening, radishes are restless to show off their stuff in a month or less. How and why? Open-minded researchers in lab coats claim seeds have tiny brains that determine the time to germinate, and that intelligence continues through the veins all the way to blossom time.
All this being said, I have struck a new understanding with the grass (which spreads by seed and by runners, another clever trick) I walk on when I get the mail (which is delivered by a gasoline-powered vehicle, yet one more clever trick).
Intelligence abounds, and that’s life.