Planting beans like I'm in elementary school for peace of mind
Last week, in what can only be described as an act of defiance against my algorithmically-determined entertainment diet, I planted beans. Not in some Pinterest-worthy ceramic planter or aesthetically pleasing macramé hanging pot—just ordinary beans nestled in a repurposed aluminum can with nothing but dirt and some rocks in the bottom. The essence of simplicity.
Why beans? Well, it’s the only thing I remember doing in elementary school. Plus, beans are straightforward. No fussy needs or complex growing instructions. Just soil, water, and patience—a combination increasingly foreign to my dopamine-ridden brain.
The thing is, somewhere between doom scrolling through climate catastrophe predictions and watching the seventeenth consecutive video of someone's "authentic morning routine," I realized I'd forgotten how to simply observe. To witness something without immediately categorizing, sharing, or over-analyzing it. Since social media slowly took over our lives (I was 15 when I first opened my Facebook account, you know, back when it was cool), my thoughts have become a collection of hot takes and borrowed opinions, each one layered over barely-processed information from the day before. Not to mention, reels and memes that I reference in conversation as if I were referencing a page from a book.
The beans were my attempt at recalibration—a small green rebellion.
After I planted the beans (and daisies, but more on that another time?), I suddenly realized that instead of checking my notifications, I started to peek at my little aluminum can. I wondered, did my ancestors partake in this primitive ritual since their survival actually depended on such growth? The question led me down the rabbit hole of questioning the immense privilege of safety and security I have compared to my ancestors. The contrast is not lost on me: I order in with a few taps on my phone while anxiously awaiting a plant whose fruits I will never need to eat.
Yes, there's something deeply satisfying about this basic act of cultivation. It exists outside the binary thinking that dominates our discourse—it's neither optimized nor monetized. It simply is. The bean doesn't care about my political leanings or whether I've achieved inbox zero (I have given up and my inbox now has 6000+ emails; giving up on that was actually liberating). The bean grows according to its intrinsic nature, completely oblivious to the trends of the moment.
Perhaps that's the real appeal. In an era where even the most mundane aspects of life feel ideologically charged, my kitchen beans exist in a space of pure neutrality. They're a small pocket of existence untouched by the culture wars, a temporary respite from the relentless pendulum swings of outrage and validation that characterize modern consciousness. Especially now with Trump getting rid of the Department of Education among other things (to put it lightly, we’re not here to discuss politics at length).
I wonder: what other simple wonders have we collectively forgotten in our quest for constant stimulation? What ancient satisfactions lie dormant within us, waiting to be rediscovered? Is there value in these small acts of attention that yield no social currency? Am I just wasting my time trying to live the former glory of my elementary school days as if in some sort of millennial midlife crisis? Maybe. But I’m happier and I’d rather be happier.
The bean doesn't answer and give me the validation I seek, of course. It just keeps growing toward the light with undisturbed persistence. And somehow, that's enough.