It was our last class before summer break. I was finishing up the first year of an MFA program in poetry, going to school while working full-time as a Guideposts editor. I was exhaustedāand riddled with doubt. Was I good enough to be in the MFA program? As talented as my peers? I worried I wasnāt progressing as fast as everyone else. When a professor asked about our summer plans, I panicked. I didnāt want to appear idle and somehow undeserving of my spot in the program.
āGardening,ā I blurted out. Where did that come from? I knew nothing about plants!
My professor nodded and said, āWhat a good idea, Mari! Emily Dickinson loved gardening.ā
Emily Dickinson had lived on a homestead in Amherst, Massachusetts, and studied botany as a child. I was in my late twenties, lived in a New York City apartment and hadāI repeatāno gardening experience.
A few days later, I was standing in line at a bodega and spotted some seedlings. I suppose I should get something, I thought. At least I could say Iād tried gardening. Kale, herbs andā¦was that a jalapeƱo plant? I picked it up. I did like Tex-Mex.
Back home, I called an urban farmer friend. āI bought a jalapeƱo plant!ā āDo you have any garden space?ā he said. āI grow peppers in giant plastic tubs outside. They need a lot of sunlight.ā
No, but I explained what I did have: a pot, some dirt and ambition.
āOkay,ā he said. āJust donāt be surprised if it doesnāt bear fruit. JalapeƱos arenāt houseplants.ā
I watered and changed the dirt for my little jalapeƱo plant. I even talked to it. And over the summer, it grew, not enormous but bigger. I was proud. Maybe I didnāt have a black thumb after all. I started the second year of my MFA, and thenāas sometimes happens in New YorkāI had to move out of my apartment. Immediately.
I sold or gave away whatever wasnāt necessaryābooks, clothes, furnitureāand went to stay in my friendsā basement. The plant came too. By the time I signed a lease on my own apartment, it was almost December and my jalapeƱo was suffering. It was wilted, brown in some places; many of its leaves had fallen off. Would my little guy make it?
This is your new home, I thought as I set my jalapeƱo next to a window by the kitchen sink. Please be okay. As if its survival were inextricably linked to mine.
I worked hard in school. Spring came. My jalapeƱo plant came back to life. It grew bigger, with new leaves. I bet I could get more plants, I thought. So I did: a spider plant, a money tree plant. Some herbs: peppermint, basil, lavender. My jalapeƱo flowered. I submitted my graduate thesisāa book of poemsāin May.
I was washing dishes one day when my professor called. āYour poems are strong,ā he said. āYouāve come very far.ā
A huge weight lifted. Iād done it! I went back to the dishes, but something was off. The flowers on my jalapeƱo plant were gone. Had I done something wrong? I peered closer. Where a flower had been, a tiny green fruit pushed through, barely the size of a dime.
I smiled. I had thrived in my MFA program, and my jalapeƱo plant had grown right beside me, both of us doing things I hadnāt thought possible.
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