I wish my aloe plants still looked like this! This summer is all about an aloe plant revival mission!
OH, VINTAGE PYREX BOWL! How you shattered in the mail. How despite how carefully I wrapped and packaged you, you arrived in tiny shards of glass. I had to dig up photos of you whole for my claim—all gleaming and perfect in your material imperfections. “Thank you for your understanding,” I said to my eager client awaiting her bowl of bright yellow vintage sunshine.
How easy it is (most times) with objects when they shatter to shrug our shoulders and say, “Oh, well.” After the refund, life goes on. But not so with losses of other kinds. We wind ourselves up wondering if there’s consciousness held in the vintage cup but most days we say “probably not” and carry on.
At dinner the other night, however, my love declined the grilled calamari on spiritual grounds. He insists on squid as sentient beings and I respect that but I was already mid-forkful of chewy tentacles when he made the declaration—I hesitated for just a moment before I took the full bite.
Then came the same discussion about the octopus. I’d studied the unique techniques of fishermen in Zanzibar to catch these intelligent creatures—I’d seen the documentaries and films praising their sentience—and yet, faced with the same question, would I eat such a being if I knew for certain they were conscious, I still might, and then I felt uneasy for the rest of the night (and contemplated the shrimp skewers, too).
Every time I’m faced with questions of consciousness when it comes to plants, my heart breaks—deep down I know they’re intelligent and wise and lean toward life and light—but I’ve also been guilty of killing more than one for no reason at all but sheer human laziness and neglect. As soon as I finished the plants passages in Michael Pollan’s new book A World Appears, I ran downstairs to apologize to the dying aloe plants in the passthrough.
Not dying, really—more like suffering—which is even worse! Mine have spots on their leathery green leaves—I’m sorry, dear aloe! I hear my heart communicate with its heart, but the giant in me also watches both of us fixate on the inevitable impossibility of this arrangement, and waits patiently for me to stop caring again—what a weird split in consciousness, there!
I inherited these aloe plants from our mother. Have you ever tended to the aloe? They are healing mother plants but wow they insist on life itself regardless of the quality of care they receive—so many babies—I think they call them pups—appear in the pots, and the life cycle continues. I’m glad I get a second chance—and third, and fourth and so on!
When a bowl breaks, I know there’s nothing left to do (usually) but to pick up the pieces and get to work on letting go. Tending to ongoing, continuous and conscious life forms—that’s another story, and I’m finally facing the tender miracle of it all, how fragile we all are, how rare and wonderful that we’re still growing and leaning toward life-giving light—of god, of each other!
