An Extension of Self: The Art of Plant Maintenance
I began reading the “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance” by Robert M. Pirsig during a period of personal transition. This change occurred at the beginning of spring, marking a gradual awakening of life and inviting some form of personal reflection. This book, too, invites reflection, revolution—however small. I’ll spare you the superfluous details of the book, partly for the sake of brevity and partly because attempting to convey the philosophical renderings of the novel in their entirety, I fear, would be tragically embarrassing. One of the ideas that struck me as particularly relevant during this time of change is the author’s discussion of expectation, especially concerning technology. The growing separation between technology and humanity has driven a wedge between us and the tools we create, making us see them as something separate from humankind rather than part of it.
This topic could easily expand into an exhaustive narrative about AI and the potential robot takeover, but not to worry; I chose a different approach. Instead of allowing this framework of expectations to slow down my personal world, I can closely examine the systems that serve me. One point of connection in this overall slowdown of processes is my journey with plants—hence the name of this article. It embodies the “it’s about the journey, not the destination” vibe, or as Pirsig puts it, “Sometimes it's a little better to travel than to arrive.”
This theme came into sharp focus when I moved into my new home, which offered ample outdoor space. I was thrilled to begin realizing my gardening dreams — a kind of proof of maturation, proof of moving forward, that accompanies moving into a new space. Eager to confirm this new identity as an exceptional homesteader, I began bringing home fruit and vegetable starters before my boxes had even been unpacked. Planting the seedlings directly into the ground, I found myself anxiously awaiting the fruits of my labor. I admired my dirt-filled fingernails like a freshly polished manicure.
It didn’t take long for me to realize that this process wouldn’t be so simple. Before I knew it, aphids were ravaging the spinach leaves, my bean plants were stunted, and my cucumber plant completely collapsed in on itself. To make matters worse, a hefty squirrel made daily appearances, eagerly eyeing the early fruits of the one strawberry plant that was doing well. Essentially, it felt like anything that could go wrong did go wrong – or at least that’s what it felt like from a beginner gardener’s perspective. The straightforward task of planting something in the ground and expecting it to thrive felt anything but easy.
Connecting this frustration with what was reiterated in the book allowed me to shift perspectives. This failure was inevitable because it lacked control. Yet, an influx of control will inevitably lead to failure. What I lacked at the beginning was knowledge. I threw this failure to the wind and blamed my poor luck on what was really improper planning. With my succulents, for example, I was too rigid in my care. I didn’t allow for deviation from the plan, which ultimately sent another plant to my Planta graveyard. Things outside of ourselves simultaneously need time to exist with and without expectations in order to grow.
While I may not have everything figured out just yet, I’ve learned a rather cliché lesson from my unsuccessful garden: it’s the journey, not the destination. It’s also about letting things be. I left the spinach plants to the aphids and focused my efforts on my beans. I should let it be known, I didn’t actually finish the book. I told myself I would by the time this article was due, but then life got in the way. Somehow, it felt rather serendipitous that everything worked out this way—a lesson wrapped up in another, if you will. Learning when to pull back and when to ramp up will surely be a lifelong journey. Accepting deviations from plans and focusing efforts elsewhere is okay. That is the message I have taken away from this half-read book and am now sharing with you. To tie this into another well-packaged cliché: don’t beat a dead horse, but it’s probably also helpful to know what killed the horse in the first place.
Cover Photo Art by Charlotte Ager