As seen in Boulder County Home and Garden Magazine, print edition, Summer 2010
By Rivvy Neshama
Soil
I met Majid at a Sufi ceremony—a Zikr, which means remembrance, remembrance of God. We chanted and danced, then we sat on exotic rugs and ate exotic treats: almonds and figs, and pastries with honey.
Majid was a noble-looking man in his 30s. He had moved to Boulder from Iran and was studying to be a landscape architect. He was looking for work, and my garden was looking for help.
One week later, Majid came and transplanted some forget-me-nots from our backyard to the front, so we could see those blue beauties more clearly. I helped pat down the dirt and said a blessing, “Take root and live! We love you! Be happy!”
Majid told me that Islam says whoever works in the soil is closest to Allah. He said he enjoys researching plants and making landscape drawings. But to feel good, he said, he also needs to put his hands in the soil every day.
I feel the same. Like a kid making mud pies, I’m in bliss when my hands are in dirt—touching it, smelling it, and watching the hidden world of worms and insects beneath it.
Soil time. Close to the earth. Closest to Allah.
Planting
I read a story once about a woman who moved often, yet planted gardens wherever she lived. She didn’t mind that she was moving on and leaving them behind. She didn’t mind doing all that work for results she might never see. Her happiness came, she said, from making the world more beautiful.
Watering
Every June morning, I rise early and go to the garden to water the budding flowers and newborn vegetables before the sun gets too hot. Everything is serene at this hour, as the sky slowly opens and the earth wakes up.
I hold the hose and water deeply, standing still, almost in a trance. Between the rows of chard I see a neon-blue dragonfly sipping nectar from a rose. The birds are chirping, the butterflies playing, and soon I am lost in the buzz of the bees. All the world is singing, it seems, singing thank you for this day.
By late August, though, the joy of watering wears thin. “Did you water the plants?” I ask John hopefully, since it’s already 9 a.m. and the sun is getting hot. “No, I was too busy,” he says. So I stump out to the garden, where most things now look a little old and withered, and I’m thinking, ‘Oh, they’re gonna die soon anyway, why bother?’
Suddenly, a tiny green hummingbird lands on our floppy comfrey plant, dips into its purple flowers, hovers above it, and leaves. OK guys, I’m back, hose in hand, ready to water.
Poppies
Everyone in Boulder has poppies—masses of poppies—everyone, except us. “Take ours!” neighbors implored. “They’re like weeds!” So I picked a few and tried to transplant them in different parts of our meadow. No luck. Then I sowed their seeds and waited for spring. Still no luck.
Finally, after three years of poppy mistrials, we planted the seeds in the right place at the right time and up they popped.
Once up, they were unstoppable, producing more and more each year. I love to see them from my window, a splash of orange against green grass and blue sky. But it’s up close that they’re outrageous, with their huge, ruffled petals and flurry of seeds circling one purple star.
Buddha said, “If we could see the miracle of a single flower clearly, our whole life would change.”
I think he was looking at poppies.
Photos: soil by creatas; Plant by Delihayat; hummingbird by Kenneth Rush; poppies by liliyya777
