For some seasons now, I’ve been saving zinnia seeds to sow the next year. I can’t believe how a tiny seed can hold this wealth of beauty and grace.
Always looking ahead
Though I am a just one gardener growing on a very small scale, I claim my right to collect and save seeds so that I can play a part in crop biodiversity, and to keep the seed free. I don’t mean “free” in terms of I’m giving them away, but free from corporate control, free from copyrighting and patenting like how Monsanto does.
Mother of zinnias
And the question of seed sovereignty and control is one that we urban gardeners can answer. The practice of seed collecting has been around ever since humans could identify what a seed was, and for the agribusiness goliaths to make it a crime for small farmers to keep their own seed is criminal.
The life force of the seed is the life force of the people, and when big companies take that away from us, they are essentially killing us.
In 1995, Indian Agriculture was reoriented from being focused on National Food Security, which rests on the livelihood and ecological security of our small farmers, to being focussed on corporate control and corporate profits, which are made possible by the corporate written rules of “free” trade, trade liberalization, and globalization. Enabled by these rules, agrichemical giants entered India and started to control the seed sector. Where once farmers grew, saved, and replanted seeds, they were now forced to buy seed-chemical packages that allowed companies to extract super-profits from farmers through royalty collection.
–Dr. Vandana Shiva, April, 24, 1995
And since 1995, almost 300,000 farmers in India have committed suicide.
Live seed or die.
I was on the subway platform last week when I overheard a woman who was eating an egg sandwich ask the man who was with her if eggs came from chickens.
These is eggs
It didn’t occur to me until that moment that such a thing wasn’t common knowledge. And then the notion of “common knowledge” just went out the window.
The yolk’s on you
Luckily, her companion was able to answer in the affirmative with confidence. Yet, I felt bad for her––not knowing what most of society knows. Why was she not in on this already established truth? Like she got on the wrong bus the day we were all learning about chickens and eggs.
As it turned out, I only felt a little bit bad and mostly judgey about the fact she couldn’t stop flailing her sandwich around or keep it in her mouth. And that she didn’t bother to find out where her food came from. Oy vey.
I need food
and you walk away reading the paper.
––excerpted from “Food” by Anne Sexton
It’s not like I miss it that much, but it’s the only home I know.
Up on 107th Street
Our block had a catholic church on it with a statue of the Virgin out front. I went to the adjacent catholic school for a year. Could have been first grade. My uniform was burgundy and white, I think. I remember knee-high socks were involved. Not to mention the nuns and their rulers.
It wasn’t the hairiest block by far––ghetto light vs. ghetto heavy? One time there was a fire across the street in my friend’s building. The orange fire seemed to go all the way up to the night sky.
Years later I would read a NY Times article listing my block as one of the worst. That’s according to the police. I guess they would know.
Homes where children live exude a pleasant rumpledness,
like a bed made by a child, or a yard littered with balloons.
To be a child again one would need to shed details
till the heart found itself dressed in the coat with a hood.
Now the heart has taken on gloves and mufflers,
the heart never goes outside to find something to “do.”
And the house takes on a new face, dignified.
––excperted from “Where Children Live” by Naomi Shihab Nye
My aunt was taken to the ER last Wednesday and then admitted into the hospital because her blood pressure was dangerously low.
The first three days were in what they call “medical step down”: less critical than ICU but too critical for the regular hospital floor. On day four she was downgraded to the regular unit, but in a control isolation room. This means you need to put on a gown before entering and wash your hands without fail.
She contracted an infection while in the nursing home and was on antibiotics for two weeks, but the bacteria was still in her system. The nursing home didn’t test her stool and so didn’t know she was still sick. Apparently you can die from such infections if you’re an old lady.
I think I know how this movie ends. But I don’t want to rush the scenes. And if I’m allowed some rewrites of the plot along the way, permit me to make sure my Old Lady doesn’t croak in the hospital. Perhaps she could be in a field of bright yellow flowers when it’s her time.
In this light
I can see the animal of truth
unleashing equal parts delirium
What can Time take
that you have not already
–excerpted from “Animal of Truth” by Jiwon Choi