Hi! Farm season is starting and I’ve been busy planting seeds in the greenhouse for Star Apple Nursery. This is a new series I’m trying out here, where I will send a weekly letter documenting my time in the plant nursery. These will be more diary-like than my usual newsletters, and will likely be written in one sitting with minimal editing. I’m hoping this can be a space where I can bring my writing and land-based practices in closer conversation with each other. I’m looking forward to sharing more of my casual thoughts and some of the ~ emotional weather ~ I’m moving through each week.
This week was personally difficult in a way that feels hard to narrativize, but I still want to share some tidbits about what’s been happening in and around the greenhouse.
This week I planted a bunch of flowers, including tithonias (Mexican sunflowers), calendula, and Cempaxochitl Orange Marigold. I acquired more Promix potting soil from Primex (say it five times fast). I supplied seeds and soil for an activity at my friend’s birthday party, and watched them plant seeds with loved ones at the dinner table in their apartment. I insisted on carrying the bale of Promix into the greenhouse by myself in the rain, and Deja made a joke about Sagittariuses. I continued to stress about the temperature fluctuations of an unheated greenhouse and brainstorm ways to make it warmer on overcast days.
Growing plants is always an exercise in control and surrender—planning as much as you can and witnessing how the weather and the agency of other living beings will turn your plans upside down. This feels even more true while working on the site of an abandoned former urban farm. I’ve inherited some infrastructure from the farm that used to be here. However, much of the site is still in the process of being renovated, and things like controlling the climate in the greenhouse or finding cool, dry spaces for seed storage have had to be DIY processes.
Every time spring comes around, I feel the tension between my ideal season and the many unknowns that stretch out before me. No matter how many spreadsheets I make, I know that I can’t predict the weeks when my chest will ache with loss, the days it’ll feel hard to get out of bed, the days it’ll be unexpectedly cloudy and the greenhouse temperature will plummet 20 degrees. Planting seeds is an exercise in the vulnerability of desire. Here is the suggestion of new life, cradled in my hands. Here is the soil I will water, hoping to see tiny leaves break the surface. Here is what I want—a future that can’t be guaranteed, but I’ll try to get there anyway.
