Ode to a Bean

Ode to a Bean

By Ayelet Schrek

In memory of Beanie

A farmer cradles a bean in her calloused hands. She takes in its tiny imperfections, its wrinkled skin, the oblong patch on its side that’s darker then the rest. She brings the bean to her face and breathes in its uniqueness. Then she scoops out a small hole in the earth, right in line with all the others, and places the bean in its new home. The earth caresses it as the farmer softly pats the earth on top of this new life. And this farmer becomes a god, willing and loving a plant into being. This farmer becomes a mother, caring, watching, singing, watering, sheltering, willing it to grow. And it does. The bean sprouts, reaching upwards and downwards, roots clinging, stalks climbing. And this farmer becomes a nurturer, helping this bean become something more. And the bean becomes something more to this farmer. The bean starts giving back to the farmer that gave it more than just life. And as it grows bigger it gives to others as well. And those others grow to love the bean just as the farmer does, and they give the bean their compassion to. And this bean takes all the love and makes it part of itself. Its vines grow twisted with love, and its roots drink love like water. And so the bean grows, never the strongest, never the tallest, but always loved and loving.

But the bean grows old, as all things must. Its leaves shrivel and its stem bends. But the love is still there. The farmer sees the bean is growing old, and she is sad. She knows all things grow old and all things die, but it’s so much easier to know that than to experience it. So this farmer plants another bean, a different bean, and she loves this new bean, too. She cares for both beans, helping one grow into life, and helping one grow out of life. And when that old bean finally does leave life, it brings all the love felt for it with it, and that love straightens up its bent stem, and adds new color back into its leaves, and it grows stronger than ever in death.