I miss the greenhouse to whom I never gave the care deserved – seeing that of my old lover burgeoning, overflowing, giving hope of ease (for, at the time, I lived in the tropics, why wouldn’t it be an easy undertaking?). But when I finally had space and the small flatpack building it remained sparse, an even more painful recollection as I now wish take back what power I can from monopolised grocery and farming industries, growing my own produce as caring for earth, myself, those around me.

Alas, I tended a gravesite of weeds, some scrawny weed plants (all eventually bearing seeds, despite my best efforts), and a basil plant who convinced me of necromancy as I managed to kill and raise it countless times, a sprawling bushel of tumbleweed returning to a verdant bounty and back again.

Now, here in sunny Lisboa, I sit across from my roommate Rita’s shrine of flowers, monstera, vines, ferns wishing back for another chance (of which there will be plenty, worry not). However, accompanying such longing is the dread of responsibility – not wanting to have to keep care and tend to a leafy populous as I fear at having to fit another element into my routine when I think I struggle to even care for myself, needing to reduce everything in my life so I can focus all energy to my own mind, body, and soul.

But unpacked bags stare me down, an empty pantry wheezes, muscles taut with yoga mat remaining untouched… The metaphorical garden needs tending and Ive already written this idea to death so let us return to the titular topic.

It wouldn’t be hard to start a greenhouse here, if I keep moving I could locate it at a friend house. Otherwise my uncle’s property is usually open to me as summer approaches. And when I return to Australia I will spend much time with my father in the suburban backyard he is slowly transforming into a permaculture textbook.

The branches will find me in their own time. My arms open wide.

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