Thereās this trope in movies, TV, and music that I often see, where a lonely person looks up at the moon, and wonders if, at that same moment, their significant other is looking up at the moon as well. For them, itās a source of connection, a way to feel close with someone else, despite being so far apart.
Iām do this too, in a way. I love history. I love thinking about all the people who have lived in far-away places in far-away times. The multitudes of cultures and peoples who have lived, but I will never experience.Ā
In my garden, I have several types of plants growing. One of which are the descendants of the beans that the Cherokee carried with them on the Trail of Tears. They have grown quite large, and have just begun to flower. I was eyeing them eagerly today, hoping for a big harvest. Tons of beans I could give the homeless and hungry living nearby. I had a looking at the moon feeling, thinking of the Cherokee, who, after their long and awful walk, planted their beans, carefully tended them, and watched as they grew, similarly hoping for a great harvest to get back on their feet.Ā
I have all these plants, cultivated long ago by ancient people from around the globe: carrots and cantaloupe from Persia, bok choy from China, peas and onions from Egypt, potatoes from Peru, horseradish from Eastern Europe, butternut squash from North America,Ā corn and tomatoes from Mesoamerica. Itās a strange and powerful feeling to tenderly care for these young crops, and look at them, bubbling with hope that they will produce a pile of food, and think that some Egyptian farmer with fields in sight of pyramids under construction, some Persian farmer living under the rule of Cyrus the Great, some Aztec farmer who survived the horrors brought by the Spaniards, all did the same thing with the ancestors of the plants I have in my little garden.
kianamaiart
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