I learned yesterday on “Radio Lab NPR” that half of all of
the oxygen in the world is made by a war of tiny bacteria on the surface of the
ocean. You can even see it from space—blooms and plumes of fighting unicaryotes.
I’ve been breathing in this breath, watching my chest rise, fall, become
scratchy and bubbled during sickness, and ache with the burn of sucked in
wheezes for decades now and never knew where that oxygen originated.
I don’t believe it, that the algae or bacteria or whatever it is with little white shield-looking-scales produce my air.
It is this houseplant.
When the outside air of methane production become the sewer in floating form I stuff towels in the edges of the windows and pray under this tree. She will clean it all before my little ones with their inadvertent huffing absorb all that is floating in the air. But this tree will make it safe for them. And her soil. It is dirt. Yep, dirt. And it is relics of the ancient with ground seashells. It is the made of the rock that held up Jacob’s head as he dreamed he was climbing the ladder to God. It is the dirt that lovers have hovered over creating new life in their hearts and secret parts. This soil has my dead ancestors dancing in it. Those are the glittering spots that you might have been taught is called mica. They are winking at us saying, “what an incredible moment you are living in surrounded by all of us under your feet and floating in the dust and bedding these plants that allow you to breath even as the dinosaur bones are being burned to fuel your cars. A wonderful moment, even your dirt sparkles, even your dirt carries God and Love and Remembrance.”
I don’t believe it, that the algae or bacteria or whatever it is with little white shield-looking-scales produce my air.
It is this houseplant.
When the outside air of methane production become the sewer in floating form I stuff towels in the edges of the windows and pray under this tree. She will clean it all before my little ones with their inadvertent huffing absorb all that is floating in the air. But this tree will make it safe for them. And her soil. It is dirt. Yep, dirt. And it is relics of the ancient with ground seashells. It is the made of the rock that held up Jacob’s head as he dreamed he was climbing the ladder to God. It is the dirt that lovers have hovered over creating new life in their hearts and secret parts. This soil has my dead ancestors dancing in it. Those are the glittering spots that you might have been taught is called mica. They are winking at us saying, “what an incredible moment you are living in surrounded by all of us under your feet and floating in the dust and bedding these plants that allow you to breath even as the dinosaur bones are being burned to fuel your cars. A wonderful moment, even your dirt sparkles, even your dirt carries God and Love and Remembrance.”
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