The poet Harold Norse is said to have lived ‘in an era in which you were supposed to veil your marital problems or homosexual angst in 10 layers of metaphor.’ (Gerald Nicosia, Time)  

As of today, I understand layers, and metaphor.

My ken is born of a failed attempt to do no harm.  It all started at Garfield Park, home to Chicago’s magnificent conservatory.  There you will find a creature named Mimosa pudica, also called a sensitivity plant (peduca = shy).  Miniature leaves fold inward to your touch.  We were so enamored with Mimosa pudica on our last visit, certain Chicagoans have brought us seedlings that, tiny as they are, behave exactly as their elders.

This morning, prodded by horticultural angst, I decide to tip the ceramic pot that holds the clay one that holds the dirt that holds the Mimosa pudica - just a shy tip - to pour out any extra water I’ve plied the seedling with.  A very slight, exploratory tip - oh!  The contents of the pot are now arranged in the kitchen sink, seedlings on the bottom, covered by dirt, topped with pebbles.

‘I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry!’ I wail.  These plants have perceptible feelings upon which I’ve just dumped soil and rocks.  I scramble to unearth the sprouts; their two inch root threads tremble in my stubby mitts.

What portion of meaning lies beneath my dirt parfait?  Pretty much all of it, because face it, you nor I get a pass on sensitivity.  Everything that penetrates our innermost sanctum comes through one nerve portal or another.  And when we rub against each other, we react.
 
Despite my tender ministrations, the seedlings aren’t reacting at this moment.  They are in shock.  And I am in denial, about a lot of things, but unlikely though it seems, I sense their resilience.  Mimosa pudica and I will survive (vive = live!) this calamity.

The power differential at play in life is humbling, when a wisp of sensitivity redeems a mound of despair.

Photo Susan Weber, Mimosa pudica