Clinging

Clinging Each year, it is a requirement that my daughter participate in her school's science fair. She and I spend endless hours brainstorming fabulous science project ideas a year in advance. Last year, I tripped upon some obscure website that was hosting the results of a fifth grader's science fair project about the effects of microwaves on water. This student had run an experiment on plants with water sterilized by being boiled in the microwave vs. boiled on the stove. Her microwave-watered plant died within a week. My daughter was curious to see if she could replicate the results. We bought baby plants and two gallons of distilled water. One night we boiled the water in the microwave and on the stove. We had every possible container out with steaming water cooling down to room temperature to be siphoned back into the plastic containers. We marked the plants. We marked the gallons. And we waited. As I watched the plants, I got this profound sense that they were reflecting humanity's experience. The stove-water-fed plant had grown wide, spreading it limbs comfortably. It was covered with lots of new, healthy, vibrant baby leaves. The microwave-water-fed plant was growing visibly slower and seemingly straight up with weak-looking, sparsely-populated vines. It had fewer new growths and what new growths it did have were malformed and sick-looking. However, it was still alive. My daughter grew frustrated because she had expected it to promptly drop over dead. I then came up with the idea of removing the plants from their soil and transferring them to rooting jars. It was thenthat we saw what was really happening with the plants. The stove-water-fed plant's roots were smooth and silky. They grew generally downward and in loose, gentle circles around the soil. When we shook the plant, the soil fell away easily and it was as if the roots were breathing. We were able to rinse the roots almost completely clean and placed the plant in the jar. There was so little soil left on the roots that there was hardly any sediment the next morning. The microwave-water-fed plant's roots were twisted tightly around each other, growing straight up and looked frayed. They clung tightly to the ball of soil in the center and we couldn't, for the life of us, shake the dirt free. It felt as though the plant was in panic. It grasped the dirt so tightly it was compacted it into a hard clump. It refused to release the dirt when we lovingly rinsed it clean. Even when it was in the jar with fresh water, the ball of black soil remained there not even releasing enough to cause sediment. The science fair was about a month ago. My daughter decided to continue on with her experiment; this time, to see if she could revive the microwave-water-fed plant. The stove-water-fed plant is as happy as a clam, healthy and growing beautifully. The roots look strong and seem to float there without a care in the world. The microwave-water-fed plant, however, is sick. It is still desperately holding on to that soil - a big, black, strangling mess - and it isn't drinking the stove-water she is now giving it. My daughter thinks that is because the plant still 'thinks that the water is bad.' The plant that was fed healthy water was willing to breathe and was open to change. It adapted gracefully to its new environment, easefully releasing the old and stepping into the new. The plant that was fed "nuked" water was seemingly terror-stricken. It is now clinging to the chunk of mud because it was trained early in life that what it was being fed was not, truly, feeding it. It adheres to that glob of soil, drawing what nutrients it can from it, but there will come a time when that source runs out of nutrients, and then what? If only this little plant would trust that, even though the water doesn't look any different, it really is beneficial. If only it knew that not all water is bad. If only it knew that the soil is, eventually, no longer going to support it. If only it could let go and believe and stretch into the protective space of the nurturing water. Yes. If only it could. © Angie K. Millgate 03/14/08

Photo credits: all photos in article courtesy of (c) Angie K. Millgate 2008