Plants grow larger. They want more space.
Every morning, if the weather looks okay (I trust wunderground, generally) I carry manifold trays, six-packs, and red party cups full of plants outside onto the new deck our handyman built last month.
I dip a coffee cup into the accidental rain barrel I made when I shoved this red plastic bin directly under a clogged gutter pipe. It's heavy with rainwater, which I hope I can trust, that's rolled off the roof. I thought I'd store extra soil in the bin, but the natural world/architecture/happenstance thought otherwise, and now I have a really easy source of water. I pour lazy heaping amounts onto my seedlings, hoping to hydrate them thoroughly enough for a long day of sun, wind, and other uncontrollable conditions.
Then I hop the deck fence with a sort of swinging self-launch I've perfected over the past week, and I carry each tray out onto the roof. I was hesitant to bring the plants all the way out here, thinking it would be too much work, but every morning I get some pretty serious satisfaction from the repetition: water, swing-launch, step step step, place the tray down. Walk back to the deck, swing back over the railing, and repeat. It builds a little internal heat, and involves almost no mental activity = perfect for morningtime.
When I'm finished, I stand up on the edge of the roof and monitor my little dog, Govinda, as he wanders around below. I spend a minute thinking about all the things that need to happen in our veggie garden out back, and the finishing touches the chicken coop needs before the long-awaited feathered ones arrive (on Sunday, cross yr fingers please). Then I realize I'm still wearing sweatpants, and I turn and launch myself back over the railing and into the day.
At night, they all come back in. Every day more big and green, or shriveled and dead, or windblown or new-leafed. All inevitable results in the life of a little green plant in a constant state of change.
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