I decided to plant herb seeds in November. There was a sunny, warm afternoon and I prepped the pots out on my porch. I planted parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme. I carried the pots inside and lined them up in my bedroom, right in front of the glass sliding door, where I hoped they would capture enough light.
I received a mix CD a few days before Christmas. It was from one of my very best friends, Lesley, who was also my college roommate. We were both transfer students, placed together at random by the housing office. On the day we moved in we marveled at the way my blankets complemented her art, her teacups mingled with my books, and our CD cases were long lost soul mates. Soon after we moved in together we realized that we also shared the terribly annoying habit of playing a new favorite song over and over again.
I always think of Lesley when I’m in a one-track loop. The winter CD that she sent to me had a few songs that I played over and over again, but none so much as “A Little Light Within” by Sturgill Simpson.
I was at a group meditation in December. It was right around the holidays and the conversation was about winter, darkness, and how hard this time of year can be. We talked about the false light: sparkling white lights, plug-in candles in the window, Christmas music, forced cheeriness. I left thinking that even the Buddhists get sad in the winter.
I’ve become very attached to these seedlings. I rotate the pots so that the stems bend from side to side, yearning for the sun. Recently, with temperatures below freezing, I move the pots away from the window so that they don’t get too cold. I worry that they’re not getting enough sun but they’re growing slowly–with even just a little light.