The kitchen lot should feel thankful for the fact we actually need the light above their shriveled heads.

Things are not going swimmingly, far from it. The whole lot in the greenhouse, pardon, the kitchen is starting to damp off, or otherwise succumb to something nasty. The Salvia Sclarea seedlings – the ones that sprouted so happily a week or what ago, the ones that I talked to and sang to every day, my little box of darlings sown on the surface of fresh, clean soil, are one by one bowing their head and giving up the ghost.

Same for the aquilegias, which I mercifully moved from the balcony to the indoors – they had all germinated, and with the unpredictable winter we’re having I figured they’re better off inside than being rudely shaken by a sudden drop in temperature. First thing they did was grow legs (is that when a former model tries to grow plants, that they respond by growing leggy beyond belief?), then they started to die off in little bunches.

The greenhouse, complete with SodaStream.

I feel shaken and sad, I want to throw stuff, and that’s exactly what I did, in a way. I’m slapping the lot with darkness – that’s right, no more extra lighting condition for the whole ungrateful lot. The windowsill bunch will have to contend with whatever brightness Finnish Februari is willing to let them have (insert evil grin), instead of being in the helpful shine of my desk lamp (or maybe they’re sighing a collective sigh of relief? I’ll never know…). The kitchen lot should feel thankful for the fact we actually need the light above their shriveled heads, otherwise they’d be plunged into darkness too. Tough love.

Of course, this is nothing but a pesky setback. There will be a lesson in it somewhere, which I’ll learn one way or another, and we’ll all laugh about it come spring when I’m up to my eyeballs in seedlings. But for now, I’m just sad.


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