Transplanting

I transplanted some of the Little Man's vegetable plants today. I'd assiduously read the instructions that came with the little seed pods (because I am Type A and a rule follower), and it said to pull up the extras and throw them away, but I couldn't do the throwing away part. It just felt wasteful (I grew up in a home where my mother washed and reused her ziplock bags--some things die hard). So I wiggled them up as gently as I could and tried to replant what tiny bits of root I managed to unearth.

Now, I wait. I wait to see if the replanted little plants put out more roots and survive their transplanting. I wait to see if they make new homes (only a few inches north of where they were originally thriving) or shrivel up to nothingness. I wait to see if they can fight for the deep roots that their un-transplanted neighbors take for granted. I realize that I should have small hope for their survival. They were transplanted by the Queen of the Black Thumb. I also realize that they were never expected to live (see instructions for the seed pods as included above). But...

I hope that they thrive and flourish, that they fight against the odds, mostly because I live in metaphor (I blame all those writing classes in college). My roots, too, have been ripped out and broken, and I am placed again into the dirt (what is the difference between a few inches and a few states?) and I wait: to see if I can be brave enough to put out new roots, to drink deep of the water and sunlight, and to grow again. I hope that I too will flourish.