The English Major’s Garden

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By Lindsay Mensch

On Wednesday mornings, I rise before the sun. My sleepy muscles lift my body out from beneath the covers, and I climb down the rungs of my lofted bed. With eyes half shut, I pull a coat over my clothes, devour a granola bar, and grab my water bottle. I walk down the hall, down the stairs, through the door – I’ve arrived at work.

It’s still in the Bailey GREENhouse at this hour. The chill of autumn hits the surface of each leaf and petal; it seeps under my jacket too. Bon Iver pushes through the speakers of BK’s phone, and fills the early air. Grabbing a bucket and filling it with water, I begin to pull the blooms off of each viola and borage plant. This is my favorite part of the morning.

There’s not much that I can say is more therapeutic than working with plants these mornings. Not having to say a word, the stakes of my grades and future career melt away. It’s not mindless; in fact, it’s the most mindful I can be in my hectic life. I can feel the aches of my body, the muscles at work. I can let my mind rest where it pleases, and let it race as it desires. My whole essence awakens with me on Wednesday mornings; I am allowed to simply be.

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