Our theme for the month of February is “plants.”

Oh to be a small mouse in a pastoral children’s novel who lives in a hollowed-out tree stump and does nothing but collect dewdrops and sweep their doorstep with a feather… And carve one strawberry into slices like it’s a ham.

Reading this tumblr post recently blessed me with a tinge of nostalgia and yearning. Why was this simple description so satisfying? I was transported back to the books that fed my imagination as a child by vividly describing simple, contained worlds. Whether it was Redwall, Brambly Hedge, The Hobbit, Winnie the Pooh, or Frog and Toad, these books’ small creatures shared some combination of values: communal dwelling, abundance of time to delight in details, deep interdependence with and care for the natural world, and a liturgical rhythm of living and feasts.

Life looked so alluring in their eyes that as a pre-teen I drafted my own storyboard about ground-dwelling animals living in a field of abandoned boots (strange I know, but imagine each boot with three floors and decorated as a homely cottage). I continue to be fascinated by the seamless integration of plants into these characters’ lives. By putting my face to the eye level of a humble field mouse, I can finally see all the miniature creations around us that support life. So I plucked some examples of plant-fashioned tools and foods from the above books and added my own inventions in curiosity of what I might see differently. Let’s indulge in this orientation to a scaled-down world, where:

Awoken by the pitter patter of a morning downpour, I wash and anoint my face with lavender water. As I stretch a yawn away, I reach for the daisy stem umbrella by the front door and step out to check the mail. Dashing back inside, I smell your acorn coffee and elderflower tea simmering over the fire and rinse out my acorn cap mug in anticipation. As I sit on a button mushroom ottoman with oat cakes and bramble jelly, I smile at the hesitant bleat of elementary students practicing on grass blade flutes. 

When the sun finally comes out in the afternoon, some neighbors string up an old corn husk for a hammock that swings in the breeze. I bring out a great-uncle’s cinnamon bark raft from the cellar and head to the stream for a time of fishing and bird-watching. Of course, I wouldn’t dream of leaving home without an assorted spread for a picnic lunch—wild radish salad, crabapple dumplings, rosemary-accented cheese, and candied violets. Even if I stumble and scrape my knee while on the path, your sphagnum moss bandages work wonders.

As gold starts to tint the sky, I head home, debating whether to prepare a refreshing watercress soup or bake a river fish with foraged dill and parsley. After the meal, I sweep away crumbs with a pampas grass broom. By the fire, your competitive side comes out in rounds of dominoes with the puckered underside of fern leaves. Those in the mood for a more relaxing night rock in their chairs, knitting with reed stems, or sipping on strawberry cordial. Boiling nearby are buffaloberries, a perfect body wash for a bath in a teacup. As the final embers flit away, I tuck myself into a cozy matchbox bed, hoping the pillows stuffed with dandelion seed heads will bring dreams of this world tomorrow.

Comfort Sampong

Comfort Sampong’s heart is sparked by fried plantains, tropical foliage and the stories of women thriving and creating a way out of no way. She graduated in 2018 with majors in economics and international development. Now she lives in Tegucigalpa, Honduras, where she works on English communications for the Association for a More Just Society, a Honduran non-profit fighting for justice and peace.