Zucchini flowers, gravitational forces and notes on dreaming
yitong lei
I cut a handful of zucchini flowers from the garden, a bright orange note for an otherwise dim evening. They sit in the colander, lightly washed, while I prepare a simple batter: a couple spoonfuls of flour and water, pinches of salt, paprika and, today, a little bit of curry powder.
It’s become muscle memory now, this whole thing. It’s hard to imagine there was a time before — before seeds, before sprouts, before reconnecting with the soil underneath my toes. When I touch the soil now, I know my body is made of the same Earth: I’m coming home.
In Santa Cruz I’d learned from friends the importance of collecting seeds, saving and cultivating them, so they might learn to adapt to our changing climate (and so we can continue to retain these parts of our culture). I’d learned from a neighbor to put my potatoes in the ground if they started sprouting in the cupboard. A long time ago, I learned from my grandparents to scatter eggshells in the soil and regrow green onions in any old container.
Who I am is a constellation of distant stars — threads criss-crossing and knotting themselves into a blanket of stars in the night sky. Always reaching, dreaming. Perhaps there is a truth out there that I’m seeking, but I don’t know what I’m looking for just yet.
For dinner, some salmon seasoned with rosemary from the bush down the cul-de-sac, oregano from a neighbor’s garden and lemon slices from another’s tree. When I sink my teeth into flaky freshly made green onion pancakes, I think of how cedar trees are receding further into the north: the spring is too warm, the droughts are drier, rainy seasons are too fast, too sudden and now violently uprooting.
The orange of my zucchini flowers peek out from under the crispy golden crust. I look up out my window, hoping to find a glimpse of the moon, a star, a distant sun. Before bed, I make myself tea, adding spoonfuls of lemon cheong (or 청, the Korean name for syrup I’d learned to make cheong from a Korean friend whose parents kept a jar of lemon cheong in the pantry year-round).
These days, as I am inundated with Facebook marketplace posts advertising worn shoes, found items and every fruit off of every kind of tree, I think of the world we are being increasingly alienated from.
More so than ever, tending to my plants is a promise and a modality through which I interact with the world and the community around me. The green onions regrowing in glass cups on the windowsill, the rosemary drying on a string and even the pot of basil sitting on the porch reminds me that I am accountable to something larger than myself.
This — the gravitational force — is what makes the world spin. The waves pull back, we dive in. We give to the soil, it gives back. We leave notes on neighbors’ doors, trade stories and recipes.
We give, together, the Earth and I.