The Feast of Little White Balls

[smokingboot]

Tonight, I did my rite in the conservatory. The scent of mingled hyacinths and jasmine flowers was so pure and gorgeous I wanted to caress it. Candles were lit, the fountain played, and it was all rather lovely. I feel sweet, magical and refreshed.

It was almost a disaster. My original plan was to plant all my seeds as part of the celebration. I say 'my' seeds, in fact, they were lovingly gathered by my mum, who has kept them dessicating in a draw for eons. Snapdragons, agapanthus, pretty blue and yellow daisies, she gathered them all for me, bless her.

So tonight was the night for me to celebrate the coming of Spring by putting said seeds in trays to live happily in the conservatory until April. Someone had recommended to me that I use white polystyrene packaging as gravel substitute for the bottoms of the trays.

This didn't quite work. The polystyrene just falls apart into little white balls which happily tumble away through seeding tray holes.

Not that they want to do that, oh no. What they want to do is cling to one's clothes and stay there forever, probably breeding or forming livejournal communities. I clearly give off some pheremonal signal that attracts nanoballs. I am their goddess. They love me. It took me hours to get rid of them, only to find that...

There were no seeds. None. Nada. Rien. I knew where I had put them last, and they are no longer there. So now I have nine teeny plant dormitories looking hopeful and empty at me. With balls.

The hag in my head seemed to think that this was a good thing, that planting my mother's old seeds was not the most constructive symbolism I could use under the circumstances.
So I'll appreciate and return the love with which she gathered them, and buy new ones.

And if there is some synchronistic message behind the multitude of polystyrene balls clinging to my arms and hair, don't tell me. I don't want to know.

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