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Sticks





This is our little plot of land, our piece of earth that we tend and till. In the Spring we cleared it and planted flowers to attract bees and butterflies. Last week on Community Day we cleared it yet again and planted...

...sticks?

Farmer Joe brought us a box filled with what looked like sticks. But they were blackberry plants. 

Growing Blackberries from Cuttings Blackberries can be propagated through leafy stem cuttings as well as root cuttings. If you want to propagate lots of plants, leafy stem cuttings are probably the best way to go. This is usually accomplished while the cane is still firm and succulent. You’ll want to take about 4-6 inches of the cane stems. These should be placed in a moist peat/sand mix, sticking them in a couple inches deep.

Read more at Gardening Know How: Propagating Blackberries – Rooting Blackberries From Cuttings https://www.gardeningknowhow.com/edible/fruits/blackberries/propagating-blackberries
cuttings.htm 

It was such an odd feeling to yank out all the old growth, remove rocks, break up soil, and then plant what felt like sticks, with only a bit of green showing to hint at life. The picture above is of our work completed.

 It doesn’t look like much.

Today I feel like that barren and seemingly empty garden. I feel that the work of those who are good has come to naught. What good is the love and care and toil if our land is left almost naked, filled with nothing but sticks? 

I’m struggling. 

I think of the saying (rooted in a Greek poem):

They tried to bury us, they didn’t know we were seeds.

I think of the closing song from Candide:

We’ll build our house and chop our wood
And make our garden grow.

It doesn’t help.

The act of gardening holds the promise of new life but today I feel death. I feel the life force of women draining out. Women who have been damaged and harassed and silenced and betrayed. Women who have fought for the truth for themselves and their sisters. And now they—we—are cut down and broken and expected to somehow take root and rise up again.

 But today we are sticks. You can barely see us. You can hardly imagine that our dreams will ever bear fruit.











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