When I met you, you were unassuming little peas from my organic vegetable box delivery, intended to be food for tonight’s dinner.
You had already started to sprout, and your ambition intrigued me. I humored you in a little dish of water and let you do your thing.
Within a day, you shot out fresh little leaves and vines, bright green – the green of chlorophyll, sunshine and vibrant life.
I let you be, silently witnessing your dramatic flourish into actual baby pea plants.
The next day, you spat out roots. I pushed them down into some old soil I had lying around my house, and perched you next to a kitchen window, under the shade of a finicky but wise old ficus. (I was hoping his survivor mentality would rub off on you.)
I slivered the window to give you a taste of outside air and freedom.
Never wavering, you continue to reach skyward, until I was compelled to build you a lattice of wire for you to wrap your curious, blind tendrils around.
Snuffling house cats didn’t scare you. Amateur watering techniques didn’t drown you. My constant adoration didn’t bore you. You held your own.
I continue to watch you grow every day. I make sure to pause to take in the moment.
Thank you, little baby pea plants, for reminding me of the miracle of life and how it conspires to trump adversity. And thank you for reminding me to appreciate a few of the most divine yet simple things I have available to me every day: water, sunshine and fresh air.
