The labourer at a greenhouse must suffer much for the sweetness of sleep. Some days she doth stand upon her feet for eight hours. She heaveth soil bags of fifty pounds onto the blue machine. When she seeth others watching, she asketh for assistance, but when their backs are all turned, she undertaketh the heaving by herself, for none can scold her if they know not what she attempteth. Then
she teareth the bag apart with her hands until dust ariseth as smoke. The dust creepeth into her eyes and ears and nose and hair where it abideth until even. She striveth in vain to weep great tears but her only success is sneezing a mighty sneeze. Then she adjusteth the machine until it roareth as a monster. It churneth and grindeth the soil with sounds that cannot be uttered by man.
Next, she peeleth apart plastic trays that slice her fingers and jab underneath her fingernails until blood doth flow. She wiggleth more switches and as the wheels and belts of the second machine thereof turn, she placeth the trays upon the belt. Hence the trays beneath the spinning brushes and rattling
metal are filled with soil. She fetcheth a knife and maketh haste to cut apart the pots in each tray as the machine speweth them out. If she happens upon a knife as sharp as a two-edged sword, the cutting goeth well, but more likely she only findeth a dull one that lacketh a handle and therewith she must
separate the pots. She doth not number the wounds on her hands or care about the soil wedged under her fingernails at this hour, for she worketh diligently until the stacks of filled trays come nigh to toppling over.
She then sinketh the trays into a great basin of water as icy as melted snow and turneth off the monster. As the dusty soil soaketh up the water, so the labourer sucketh up more strength for the next hour of work. The dust that hath crept into her eyes stingeth as an adder. It is a terrible thing to have stinging eyes and mud-plastered hands, for mud in the eyes is no better than dust in the eyes. She heaveth the dripping trays from the basin and slideth them over to her fellow labourers who fill them with plants of small statures. The heaving and sinking doth make her arms and back sting sore, but she telleth herself that seeds bring forth plants and that heaving bringeth forth strong muscles.
When she doth not plunge trays or heave soil, she standeth and planteth with her fellow-
labourers. Around this table, they speak of many things. They speak in proverbs that none else could decipher, commune of things of the heart, or seek out wisdom with much babbling. They have learned that to listen and speak in turns preventeth them from boredom, keepeth weariness from overtaking
their souls, healeth the ache in their feet, and maketh the hands on the clock to fly. There is much good medicine here and much binding up of hearts, so that all heaviness and sorrows flee away as their spirits are lifted together.
Some days, the sons of the fellow-labourers also play by this table. They also make the hands of the clock to fly, for their shrieking maketh boredom tremble and it never showeth its face. The little ones discover hidden treasures in every corner, create miry pits for the greenhouse labourers to wallow
through, and diligently pull out the plants another planteth. They run upon tables and tumble off benches until eggs grow on their heads. They search the bottoms of water buckets for crackers and come out clad like a drowning rat. They stick their fingers into the roaring monster’s mouth and hang their faces over the columns of dust arising from the blue machine. The greenhouse labourer’s heart is made glad when they shout her name, “Nanow”, or they remain contended by her side without their mother’s presence, for then she knoweth they have accepted her. Even when they pour water over her feet or
bite her legs, she thanketh God for their innocent and lively companionship.
With carts that wobble, she pusheth loads of trays and plants in circuits across the earth or
wherever the cart listeth. For the carts resist guidance. Behold, when they enter the valley of the shadow of death, the greenhouse labourer beggeth for a mighty hand to save her from her fierce enemy. They travel where the pusher doth not desire, not heeding shouts and crashes. When she hath subdued
the cart into submission between two tables, she taketh the dripping trays of plants and slideth them upon the tabletop. Mud water runneth down her armpits and tainteth her raiment, but she feareth not mud. A little dirt never hurteth, else she would have given up the ghost long ago. Let it be a big mess. She cannot remain clean here. Let it be.
At noontide, she doth not fret herself over her brown hands, for they cannot be thoroughly
cleansed again for many months, no matter how much she scrubbeth them. She rejoiceth, for the dust that staineth her skin hasteneth the appearance of deep tan. She sinketh into a chair, refresheth herself with food, and resteth for but half an hour before she riseth again. She findeth the restroom in which
the light doth not always shine and where she seeth visions of serpents and mice. From then, her day continueth as before.
There be some days in which she stoopeth and planteth budding plants into great pots. Or she standeth by a barrel and pruneth plants; for every stem that beareth too many leaves and blooms must be cut off and thrown onto the compost pile. She snippeth and snippeth all the sweet plants, the stinky
plants, and the sticky plants until the barrel boasteth of all the colors of the rainbow. She discovereth muscles in her hand that she knew not of before they began to ache. When she doth snip alone, she thinketh much and singeth songs and listeneth for the meadowlark. When she snippeth with a fellow labourer, they talk much and poke one another’s arms with their shears.
Some days she pusheth a great broom across the wide floor, and imagineth that she is Samson as blisters swell on her palms. The heat presses on her and her skin leaketh with sweat. Some days, she creepeth upon her hands and knees beneath the tables with a broom in her hand, like the woman
seeking her lost coin. But she findeth only spiders. She sweepeth and sweepeth until her shoulders are stiff, her knees cry out,
her fingers cramp, and her head is bumped blue for the lack of space above her back. She doth not feel very gorgeous as she ariseth from her labour at the end of that day.
Alas, she never feeleth graceful after a day at the greenhouse. Yet she feeleth strong and mighty, for though she acheth, stingeth, and stinketh, she knoweth she hath conquered the dust and wounds and mud once more. This maketh her glad. She knoweth that many more plants can now flourish because of
her strivings and one day mankind will be fed and made glad by the fruits of her labour. She is glad, for she thriveth at this place.
And when at last the greenhouse labourer falleth upon her bed at eve after having washed herself, her sleep is sweet. (Ecclesiastes 5:12)
Written in 2023. And yes, I still enjoy the job.
Inspired to Inspire 