Mrs. Wigglebottom would have made an excellent farmer. She loves to dig through dirt, eat things right out of the garden (sorry, neighbors), and, happily, has taken a shine to tending to my tiny herb garden.
This morning, as we got back from our walk, we stopped by the herbs and I touched each of them and Mrs. Wigglebottom put her nose in each plant. We both seem to like the smell of the sage the best.
The basil is unhappy. I only hope it will hold on until the weather gets a little warmer.
I was telling the Professor the other day that something about the basil has freaked me right the fuck out. I mean, we have houseplants, but in general, we have houseplants that will suffer a lot of abuse–succulents that can stand if you forget to water them and a spider plant I’ve had for years and years and not been able to kill.
The basil, though, is another story. It responds quickly to light or too much water or not enough sun. In other words, the things it does to respond to its environment seem to happen at such a pace that I notice it and that seems fast for something that doesn’t have a central nervous system or a brain.
The Professor says that I’m responding to the fact that the plant strives for life, that it makes rudimentary efforts to stay alive.
I don’t quite know what to make of that, or if there’s anything to be made from that.
I hope the basil lives, though. Even though I will kill it later and grind it up. Ha, I guess that’s what’s got me thinking.
Why are some life impulses worth protecting and others not? Why does it bother us to kill some things and not others? How do we draw those lines? I don’t know and I don’t have a good sense of it. But I like to think about it anyway.