Sage wisdom

Around this time last year, I dug up the herbs. You should know that I’ve now successfully killed them all.

Well, almost.

There is a spindly tomato plant still chugging along—producing one, tiny, orange tomato every few months—, but since that pot was originally supposed to be devoted to Thai basil, which I did successfully kill off within the first month, and the tomato vine merely sprouted in the aftermath, I’m not sure if I can declare the plant entirely victorious.

But then there is one, somewhat legitimate, survivor. It’s a bit brown, a bit shriveled, and well, frankly, it just doesn’t look good. Still, Sagey lives on.

I used to think this sage plant was magical—it had weathered too many frosts, had been over watered, underexposed to sunlight, and overlooked in general, but still, it grew, and that seemed a bit supernatural to me.

In my homework reading the other evening, however, I learned that the sage plant is a perennial herb, and a remarkably sturdy one at that. Not only will the plant regenerate itself after the winter, but it will do so vigorously and consistently for several consecutive years. It is one of the heartiest herbs, if not the most determined, proving its worth with an ability to thrive even when sorely ignored.

I used to think that this was one of the sage plant's more admirable qualities—its persistent energy and quiet dignity despite increasingly obvious indifference.

I understand now that the sage plant is an idiot.