Dear Wigleaf,

I don't know how the weather is where you are, but here it's cold enough that all my plants are in from the porch, and my apartment has become crowded: the succulents; the sprawling devil's backbone; the spider plant that started as a bud I took from a vegetarian restaurant in Missouri; plus the houseplants my mother gave me, steely things I'm not supposed to be able to kill. I'm a clumsy, neglectful gardener, but I've been lucky; this summer, the cool mountain nights brought out the most fruitful garden I've ever seen—and by garden, I mean a small complex of pot-bound annuals, cherry tomatoes, peppers, herbs. I dried the herbs and bundled them on my front steps a few weeks ago. The garden project will be successful when I have my neighbors believing I'm a witch.

Most of my human company has been digital lately; green company helps make up the difference. It's not ideal, but it's helped me better understand the kinds of things I have patience for. I've had less patience for ideas lately. For ideologies and slogans and pointed arguments. Maybe it's me getting older, but I just think we should talk about moss more. Do you know how many different species of moss there are in the Appalachians? It's the ambient music of plants, an ecological Brian Eno. But that's good company too. Play the tracks often enough, and you'll hear all these differences.

Best wishes,

Jen