Green in Judgement

A few days ago, I had a migraine. I was trying to get a pile of work finished on my computer, but every time I stared at the screen for more than a few minutes, I started to feel like someone was attempting to drive an iron spike through my left eye with a hammer, and was forced to look away at something, anything, that was not brightly colored and glowing, so my work was slow-going.

In the midst of this, my four-year-old son, who had gone down into the basement to "help" his father with some mysterious electronics project involving scavenged miniature solar panels and rechargeable batteries, came barreling up the stairs, pounding his feet like a baby elephant while yelling, "Mommy, Mommy, Mommy! You have to look!"

Now, ordinarily this sort of racket might cause a woman with a migraine who was trying to get a pile of work done to throw something heavy at a wall.

But his next words stopped wrath in its tracks.

"My chamomile has sprouted!" he said, beaming proudly.

His chamomile. Indeed.

The transformation of a tiny seed into a green, growing thing that moves and breathes and reaches for the light still affects me with its mystery, even with all my adult knowledge of biology. Despite years as a gardener, I still get a little thrill of wonder every time a seed I've planted pokes its leaves above the soil.

But it was not a feeling I've had the experience of sharing with someone, until now.



To a four-year-old, life itself is magic.