I have a love-hate relationship with my greenhouse. Well, with my plants that live in one area of the greenhouse. Technically, it’s not mine, it belongs to the Housing Authority that runs the senior and disabled development where I live (I am doubly qualified to be here). This last point, about who technically owns and “looks after” the greenhouse is one of the problems.
I don’t like to go into the greenhouse. I feel I will do something wrong or someone will yell at me for who-knows-what, a reasonable fear in this place. Management has not taken care of upkeep, seeming to hope the greenhouse will just fall apart and disappear, and to enter the greenhouse one has to lift the handle up and pull hard to open. Closing the door is even more difficult–grasp the handle, pull up hard and slightly to the right, and gingerly push the door over the decaying wooden sill till it fits into place. Too many slap-happy wind parties have warped the door. And the roof leaks, right over the shelf where my plants live in winter.
Ah, the plants, my plants. When I moved here almost eleven years ago I was ecstatic that there was a greenhouse. A greenhouse! A place with enough sun and heat to winter over my tender perennials and touchy indoor plants. A place to start seeds if I was so inclined (and some years I am).
The problem, the problem–is my extreme sensitivity to environmental energies that touches off an incipient social phobia and makes it really hard for me to go outside my apartment and into the greenhouse. When I do go past it, walking fast to do laundry or check mail, I notice whether my plants look ok, or if they are starting to wilt from lack of water. And I feel guilty. I feel guilty all the time because I imagine that whatever I am supposed to do for my plants–and often I have no idea what that nebulous “something” is–I am not doing it. I know it because my guilt tells me so. Water the plants, yes; feed them–the night-blooming cereus has turned yellow from lack of something–I always, always put off. Talk to them! Yes, talk to them, I should do that. I am guilty of neglecting them by not giving them my energy and sound. But the guilt is not enough to overcome that fucking phobia.
So, yesterday. I went to check the mail and send a letter. I walked past the greenhouse a couple of times and resisted going in. Finally I let myself give in to the feeling that I needed to go in, check on everyone’s moisture levels and see how the tomatoes are doing. Yes, tomatoes.
These tomatoes are an odd cherry tomato that I got at a plant giveaway last year, when we could still get together in public places (I saved seeds). They are black, and gradually they will turn partially red, and if you wait long enough they turn completely red. Pick them too soon and they are tough and bitter and a bit astringent. Wait long enough and they are sugary sweet, making you want to keep popping more of them in your mouth.
I went into the greenhouse and greeted the plants. The tomatoes were there–a few fallen and half rotting, some not yet ripe, but a few were perfect! I watered the plants that needed watering, which was all of them, as I usually leave it until the plants are ready to start begging. Actually, winter is an easier time to deal with this issue, because the greenhouse stays cooler and the plants hold onto their moisture longer.
I felt a sense of warmth and welcome from the plants, instead of my usual “am I going to get in trouble for who-knows-what?” that follows me around this place. It was so comforting to feel that. To feel acceptance and love from my plant friends, forgetting the guilt. Love, acceptance. Home.