It Starts with Pulling a Weed

Rarely does anything go from the stage of infancy, from beginning, and then bolts, or rather, erupts abundant, and to its full expression. A seed predictably follows the path of breaking, seedling, sapling, and so forth. A human goes from embryo, to newborn, toddler, and on. We see this clearly in the maturation of form, whether it be plant or human, animal or element. And also, if studied closely, the same pattern, this same recipe or path of becoming, is found in the realms of skill and talent, in the activities of doing.

A writer, for instance, begins by writing for the first time something they are conscious of as intentional craft, an expression they feel at a soul level must be said. As with any writer or poet, this may at first be daunting with enormity, both in the need to say everything contained in the heart, and the desire to do it well. But the to-be writer must begin, and begin everyday, or as often as they wish and to the degree they are committed, until they are practiced and their body of work grows, mediocre as it may be to begin with. Every so often a stroke of buried talent emerges, as a pianist who reproduces by ear, though this does not subvert the necessity of lessons and refining skill. As the writer writes, the seed, if you will—and I will return to the seed not only as metaphor—turns into a seedling. Their craft begins to root and simultaneously emerge out of the ground, budding and flowering with expression along their destiny as literary artists. To this end, becoming requires patience, and faith, and most of all, commitment. Forget about any realized potential without commitment, without applying yourself to the thing you want. Otherwise it remains as potential.

For a long time now I have desired to become a gardener, a farmer, a homesteader, skills my parents never taught me. This is how its been: I’ve had to find ways to learn the things I desired, either by myself or by the help of others, from cooking to writing to riding a bike for the first time in my early twenties. The testimony to how committed I can be is that I opened up a restaurant, which later became a James Beard nominee, having never properly learned how to cook till I was twenty-one, nor having ever worked at a restaurant before. I believed I could do it, and so practiced often, until I lived what I sought. And then gave it away.

Today my intentions are geared toward something different. To become an established poet, writer, and educator, yes, but also, to learn how to be with the earth. To become a naturalist, to become familiar and known to the soil. There are days I fancy myself an early riser, feeding the goats and chickens, greeting the horse and the donkey, greeting the bed of flowers, and then harvesting from my mutual labor with the ground. The extent of my engagement in this has remained in the realm of potential. This may be a more plausible had I ever taken care of farm animals, had I ever planted anything with enough consistency and care to call myself a gardener. Yet still I fantasize of somehow landing on a farm with a little house and a garden enough to not have need for groceries. If I did by some luck find myself in such a circumstance, I wouldn’t know what to do. As it stands, I am happy to report a step, more so a lifted foot, in that direction. Of my first two harvests: green onions and radish. Writing this, already I taste their pungent, dare I say sweet, songs in my mouth.

Last summer a friend gave me three Egyptian walking onion bulbs. I planted them haphazardly by barely digging an inch or two in a rocky, soil depleted bed in the backyard, right up against the back fence. Taylor and I planted three different types of flowers there the year before, to no avail. One of them, the dahlia, emerged this year, with a dark stalk and one purple blossom. We talk often about gardening, but the impulse hasn’t yet materialized. The closest we’ve gotten is buying a raised bed from Costco this summer after an accidental afternoon of weeding while mowing the backyard. I ran to Taylor in delight of the hours I spent kneeling with a trowel. I said to him, I am ready to garden, but first I’ll commit to weeding as a practice. What can I tell you? He is a man who wants to make me happy. So I tell you this with some guilt at rejecting his efforts: we returned the Costco gardening bed after learning that it was a product of Israel. I could not bring myself to plant and eat from a plastic box produced and shipped from the country that poisons my land, assuming my plans for kale, carrots, and parsley were to be successful.

Our days busied themselves as they do, and the effort toward a garden receded again into casual talk and fantasy. But a mysterious and bright little green stalk, several of them in fact, rose from the rocky bed near the fence. Behold, the green onion. Pride, of the satisfaction in effort, arrived, as did joy, as did the pleasure of reaching my fingers down and tearing a piece of its leaves, then savoring it, eyes closed. I have at last grown something, and eaten from it. A poet’s first poem, so to speak. A painter’s first portrait. Now every time I sit for lunch in the backyard I walk over to the walking onion, which has not yet moved, tear off a piece, and place it to my tongue. Such big taste for such minimal effort.

Along the path of becoming, at the very least in my own experience, I have found that it is not enough to only apply effort toward the wanted outcome. It is necessary also to talk about it. Speech creates, and discussing your hopes and goals makes you that much more committed to them, and so begins the creative flow of gathering support for your intended dream. This happens by way of energetic encouragement from the invisible forces of the universe, and from the generosity of friends through belief, and sometimes, by way of a physical boost. A writer to-be expresses their desires, and their friend gifts them a notebook and a pen, or the forces of benevolence guide them to a workshop or a teacher.

As it happened, I spoke to a friend about this budding gardening attraction during a recent visit. And then, a large package at my door. He shipped me a bag of soil, a round planter, and a packet of radish seeds. It took me all of maybe ten minutes, and within days, their tiny green leaves surfaced. A mere thirty days later, and I have already harvested. To tell you that I ate from the mutual labor of my hands, the soil, and the generosity of another makes me blush. What could taste richer than this? And who can say where this might lead? Taylor and I say one day, when we have our own home, when we are no longer renting and have settled on a land with each other.

It is worth mentioning this, in case I question the possibility of a could-be gardener. A bit more than ten years ago I doubted my ability to understand a poem, let alone write one. It just never occurred to me that I had any adjacent talent, or that I could become practiced in it. At a friend’s invitation, I joined a writing group in Salt Lake City. Slowly, and with daily practice, I refined my voice on the page, found the fluency I’d always wanted. Not a day goes by in where I don’t write, or compose a poem, or tend to the inner landscape of inquiry. But unlike operating a restaurant, writing and poetry isn’t a pursuit in profit or trying something new for the fun of it, but a path that has been waiting to bloom within me, patient as a seed in anticipation of spring. How I know this is beyond what I can make sense of. There are mysteries that are best kept mysteries.

My garden now, so to speak, is abundant with a variety of verse, and still there is much more to plant, much more to learn. Still there is much more to harvest.

I wrote the poem below before the green onion, the dahlia, the radish. It was all true then, it is mostly true now. I have grown a vegetable. I have planted a flower. I have eaten from my own good labor and the generous ground.

It Starts with Pulling a Weed
I have yet to grow a vegetable, yet to
plant a flower. All my life, and not
once have I plowed or tilled, have I
held a seed in between my untrained
fingers and carefully placed it in the
rich soft bed. I do not want to leave
this world having never eaten from
my own good labor and the generous
ground. I do not want to remain
unknown to the soil. I thought of all
this just the other day while weeding,
accidentally, after three years on this
land. I thought to myself— my, I love
this dirt. I thought, how come it took
me this long. I thought, how awful,
to say I lived on the earth but not
with the earth.
- Moudi Sbeity

📚 The date for the Book Tour Workshop / Fundraiser is now moved to August 22 from 10 - 12 MDT while I recover from surgery. I would be thrilled to have you join. I’ll be reading from my forthcoming books, offering prompts, and then opening up space to share. Sign up here: https://habibialhamdulillah.eventbrite.com

📘 Both books are now available for pre-order
Habibi Means Beloved (memoir) / Alhamdulillah Anway (poetry)

🌱 Sept 8 - Book conversation and workshop with ZenJen Brown at 4pm ET. Register here - free.

💜 Save the date. Monday, October 5: The Raft will host the official online book launch for my debut memoir, Habibi Means Beloved. Watch for event details soon.