Well, the deed is done. For better or for worse, I’ve planted the seeds in my Simple Garden for what will hopefully, some day, be parsley, sweet basil, and oregano. I made an unholy mess in the kitchen (who knew those little soil pellets would be so sloppy once they met water?!), followed the directions in the package to the best of my limited ability (what do they mean by “a few” seeds – three or four? A pinch? A small handful?), and placed the plastic wrap-covered containers somewhat dubiously on the windowsill in our dressing room (the only place in the house, really, that gets a decent amount of direct sunshine).
I also mixed up some seed starting soil and water, placed it in a simple terracotta pot, and added some chive seeds. That little container of hope is sharing the sunlight in the window with my Simple Garden, raised up on an improvised platform made up of boxes and binders (the base of the pot is too wide for the sill) to give it as much exposure as possible.
And now we wait.
This isn’t perfect. This isn’t a sparkling bright south-facing kitchen window lined with glass shelves and pots of growing goodness from which to choose while preparing a meal. This isn’t an abundance of lush and fragrant greenness lovingly coaxed from the earth by a skilled tender of the soil. This isn’t life playing out beautifully on the glossy pages of a magazine. This is sloppy, makeshift, amateur. This is trying with no guarantee of success. This is baby steps, fumbling efforts, mistakes and stumbles.
But it’s mine.
And I love it.