It was almost midday — sun out high but hidden beneath the clouds — when I went to the front garden to work on some herbs and vegetables intended for replanting. Drain holes were poked into broken water pails and unused gallon jugs, turning them into new plant pots. In another basin, vermicast, coconut coir, and animal manure were mixed into soil to condition it into what horticulturists call “having a good tilth.”

My mom advised me to wear gloves, but I ignored her. Like the practice of Earthing (or grounding), where people go barefoot to feel the ground, working with bare hands allows contact with the soil and the plants. Nature’s energy transfers into the body. And at times, when deep into work, there’s a different feeling that goes beyond physical connection — there’s a full sense of being, there’s peace of mind, there’s inattentive attentiveness.

Although the practice of horticulture has been around for thousands of years, recreational gardening has become a mainstream hobby only recently. Even with small spaces, people have started visiting plant shops to look for indoor plants. Vloggers now build their careers on house planting channels (more interestingly, seasoned local farmers and gardeners now vlog as well). Influencers, celebrities, and artists have also enticed people to try out gardening. This interest (or trend) in today’s time, however, truly peaked when we got stuck at home during the quarantine.

Sure, catching up on my “to watch” or “to read” list helped fill my time and kept my mind off the pandemic. But this repetitive, sedentary life, a discordance from the natural tendency of humans to move, eventually caused boredom.

I have had a constant attraction to nature, since I grew up in Cavite when it was mostly fields and forests, with devout gardener grandparents and occasional gardener parents. But as a kid, I considered gardening work, and all I wanted was to play. When I finally wanted to try my hand in it and cultivate life at least in small doses, I was already an adult living in the demanding, fast-paced city, where garden spaces were impossible.

It was during home quarantine back in the province when I acquired some space and time. I devoured books and videos on horticulture, forestry, agronomy, biology, herbariums, and the lives of gardeners. Instead of reading my usual fiction books and art books, I (re)learned more about mitochondria, photosynthesis, grafting, pruning, taxonomy, nitrogen, phosphate, Emily Dickinson, London’s Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew. But despite the time I put in, reading wasn’t gardening. I had to get my hands dirty.

Some attempts were more manageable when I started. Plants grew and stayed alive — their stalks thickened, their leaves turned green and crisp. But as time went on, it was (perhaps mostly) a succession of failures. I got convinced that there was no such thing as a green thumb or an innate gift for gardening. Skills needed cultivation. So I continued trying, but what I didn’t know was that I would grow alongside my plants.

The inanimateness of plants makes it easy for us to forget that they can communicate. As many gardener-scientists, gardener-writers, and gardener-artists have professed, plants bear profound metaphors. Although not easily understood, their language is on a higher plane; they require more reception from us since they communicate through impulses.

Quarantine during the early weeks felt like I had been transplanted away from where my roots had grown and settled. Although surrounded by my childhood home’s familiar walls, breathing in the familiar air, the uncertainty of the situation caused discomfort. I had to deal with new soil, a different amount of water, a strange exposure to sunlight (or the lack thereof). I tried, then, to imitate plants in their ability to withstand, and after some time, flourish.

Plants don’t have the same fight-or-flight response as animals and humans. Their rootedness prevents them from flying away from threats like weather and pests, or even us. They adjust to survive. Their rootedness not only makes them resilient, but also makes them resourceful. Plants do not strive on their own. They do so by connecting with their environment — water, sunlight, soil, insects, and other species. As they say, “A tree can only be as strong as the forest that surrounds it.”

Long periods of solitude played a significant role in my personal and artistic growth. Still, I knew I had to connect with people with whom I share the same passions and interests. And now, more than ever, I connect with nature. Like a successfully transplanted plant, I settled, accepted, and learned the value of stillness. I was on my tropism responding to stimuli, growing both downward and upward.

I got more rooted by understanding my provincial roots, by seeing my initial environment with more awareness, noticing what has changed and what has remained, by consuming local produce picked by hand, by running many kilometers, by Earthing with my eyes closed, and by gardening. Then there was the expansion of the mind, by entering new realms and realities through imagination, by devoting time to yield knowledge from books, films, podcasts, and work.

Gardening is not a time-filler anymore. With limited food delivery services during the lockdown and the inability to easily go to the grocery, I saw the importance of learning how to cultivate our own food. Of course, we still won’t be able to produce food for the table in an instant, or have enough harvest to feed the family for a week, but it’s essential to have this skill if there’s no other option but to be self-sustaining.

I also persist, even though it’s frustrating on some days, because gardening allows me to communicate differently from my daily tech-driven connections. I believe plants listen when our hands whisper our stresses and joys. Plants are alive. They understand us more than we do them. It’s also an assuring thought that they will remember, for plants have memories.

It’s been months since I transplanted those herbs and vegetables. I saw them bloom, then wilt. I saw how their leaves turned green then brown then green again. I saw how snails ate those leaves. I found buds, then lost them. Every day, even when no one’s looking, plants try to survive in their quiet little ways. We do too. – Rappler.com

Jose P. Mojica, MA, teaches communication and media at the University of Santo Tomas Faculty of Arts and Letters under the Department of Communication and Media Studies.