It's hard to believe that nearly 6 weeks have come and gone. The relentless passage of time. But I have had the soft pleasure of watching my tomato seedlings cautiously peek through the soil surface in the starter sets standing atop the radiator in Hannah's bedroom. Now, they upright themselves more bravely, growing bigger with each passing day.
Just two weeks ago, I walked over to the Ace Hardware on Fairmount Avenue and selected a variety of tomato seeds; my purchase was dictated by interesting-sounding names, however, as I know very little about different breeds of tomato. There were Rainbow Heirloom Tomatoes, Marsglobe tommys and something called "Mortgage Lifters," which I take to mean that they grow so big that you can feed an entire family with just one tomato, and you will save so much money on groceries that you can effectively reduce the cost of your mortgage. I'll let you know how they turn out :)
And next came the planting. I love this process--so elemental, so human. A visceral link to the past, and to family members passed. It's important to plant with intention, and awareness.
The spreading of the soil: a soft, earthen bed. The poking of holes for each seed: the fertile penetration ritual mirrored in the reproductive act. Implanting the delicate, dormant, defenseless seed is a rite of protection--or in my morbid mind a reflection of the burial of the dead, resulting in life anew.
At this point in the contemplation my thoughts turned once again to our rituals regarding death. When we bury, the body decomposes to its elemental essence, returning each individual to the cycle of life that sometimes feels so far removed from our technologized existence.
I struggle daily to accept that death is a part of nature; we distance ourselves from the rhythms of life, but the universal ebb and flow reclaims us in the end. The planting process demonstrates a microcosm of these forces, right in my two bedroom apartment!
We are "planted" into the earth when we die, but do we ever experience the "rebirth" promised to us by countless religions, suggested to us by the habits of the natural world? We cannot remember what we did before these lifetimes, and we certainly will not remember comes after. I suppose these ideas consume my thoughts each night, as I cautiously creep along the edge of the Bardo.
How do other religious worldviews address this all-too-human concern? Have we truly lived, and continue living infinite lifetimes as the Buddhists and the Hindus suggest? The natural rhythm of life invoked in agrarian articulation--is this the cycle of Samsara that the Eastern Philosophies purport to help us overcome? At this powerful springtime moment, I feel captivated by this cycle, comforted by its predictability. So does this signify my attachment to earthly things, and thus my eternal bondage?
If I had to name anything as a bonding force for me, it is love--needing it and needing to give it. Companionship. I am, as I have noted, acutely aware of the isolation and loneliness that accompanies the process of death; I watched Бабця endure it during her final year with us.
Honestly, I just want to feel a loving presence in my life for as long as I can, before I experience that inevitable detachment. That is my crutch, my hurdle. Is it so wrong? That dark, tingling emptiness that pinches the crown of my head as I lay awake at night just breeds such anxiety...
Ha! Let me flee to the simple comfort of soil, seeds and sun! Gently cover the fragments of life with soil. Warm them, water them and wait. We will face the beyond soon enough, but for right now I'd rather think about tomatoes... You know, I heard someone say once that there's two things money can't buy: love and homegrown tomatoes.
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