Not just a garden

The garden has fared pretty well during this summer heat. I'll admit, I'm surprised how hardy basil is. I thought it would be a more finicky herb, much like an elderly woman, wilting under the harsh sunlight and impossible Florida temperatures. Turns out, its a rather sturdy plant, acting as if it was meant to be bathed in scorching temperatures all summer long.

Now cilantro, on the other hand, has completely let me down. Being such a popular ingredient in Mexican cuisine, I assumed this plant would flourish in the heat. Mexico = Hot, right? In the spring time, if you happened to walk past our garden bed as a breeze blew by, you'd be hit with an intoxicating aroma of delicious young cilantro plants. They were bushy and green. I'm not sure what happened from that point on. Perhaps I over picked them. Soon they stopped producing leaves, and then those leaves turned into flowers. Neglect from the people inside the house caused the living things outside the house to take their natural course, and if you know anything about cilantro, you know what proceeded the flowers: coriander. Little, bright green, fragrant balls hanging from the once leaf-laden stems.

The other day I went out and picked a bunch and brought them in to dry out. I squeezed one open, and inside was the concentrated flavor of the cilantro leaves packed in each tiny little ball: lemony, minty, and fresh. While perplexed over the loss of my thriving plants, I was excited by the prospects of what I could do with this new harvest from the plant. I wanted to try using them fresh, but truth be told, I never got around to it, and there they still sit on my counter, drying out. They've lost a little of their fresh aroma and their bright green hue has given way to a dull brown, but I am excited about my first attempt at home-dried herbs.

Somehow I was a little comforted by this journey of the cilantro plant. It seemed as if I'd let it down, let it wilt, neglected it in a time of need. But when I discovered that the plant had adapted, though taking on a different form, I felt hopeful. It continued to produce fruit, just of a different kind. In some ways I see a parallel to life. Just when I think I've neglected things beyond the point of repair, grace and healing come in and show me the saplings of new life. There is always hope for new life. Who knew a little green ball about a quarter the size of a pea could produce something so vital in me?