The Papaya Farm

The days are now running together. We are all over the garden attempting to make sense of it. It seems so big. Sometimes I can't wrap my mind around it.

A couple of days ago we planted the papaya farm which is the cutest little farm this side of the pacific. In a 40 foot square fenced in plot there lie around 6 rows of raised red dirt which now have sprouting from them 32 beautiful green fleshy plants. Some of the darlings are a bit older and are nearing a foot tall but most of them stand mere inches off the ground. The green strikes a heavy contrast to the red dirt, especially when a new leaf has just emerged with a color that is almost neon.

Mr. Miller Molokai (who is visiting this week)is pretty smart about what these plants need and showed us how to make bowls around each seedling so that they can hold more water. With the dirt and the rocks they end up looking like bowls of chili. Especially when you put the water in them. The papaya plant then acts as a sprig of parsley.

It took me a while to plant them as I had to make sure that each chili bowl was symmetrical. Then what with all the relationship building going on with each plant... you can see how it would take some time.

My favorite one is Wilbur. He is the smallest one in the batch and so is named after another famous farm runt. In his little sapling container he had been overtaken by a large weed. When I removed the weed along came most of Wilbur's delicate root system. He is so small that I am not sure that he will make it. I vow to sing to him everyday so that he can grown some new strong roots.

I walk out to the papaya farm each morning. Give them water and miracle grow and sing to them. I think they like gospel.

This is my life now… covered in red dirt, singing to papaya plants.

The day goes by so fast that it feels nothing has been done and only my exhausted limbs, sore muscles and a ravenous appetite prove that I have worked. I still haven’t moved into the little caretaker cottage yet. Its bright pink and blue walls plead for attention. "Please paint me!" they beg. "I'll get to you," I promise.

Walking the garden I note all the pruning, weeding, and fertilizing that must be done. Then I step back. So much seems to be happening underneath the surface, under the ground where the roots are sucking the dry earth for any remaining droplets of moisture. These roots secure the plants to the soil, to each other, fending off high winds that might otherwise sweep them off to sea.

Above land, no roots hold me down in one place. I wonder if a big gust of wind might fly me right off this rock. How I wish sometimes I could settle down, allow some roots to anchor me, tie me to a piece of earth.