Basil Bob & Me
A Reflection on the Physical and Spiritual Connections Between the Human and the Botanical
In the recent film Blade Runner 2049, the male protagonist Officer K meets another replicant, or man-made “human,” who serves the diabolical industrial mastermind behind their production. When the replicant introduces herself as Luv, K remarks, “He named you — you must be special.” His comment is only partially sarcastic. Though his casual condescension calls attention to her less-than-human status — which is also his own — he is also acknowledging that she occupies a relatively powerful position as her creator’s right-hand replicant. To be granted a name is, indeed, to be marked as special: a name entails value, individuality, longevity, and emotional attachment; above all, it distinguishes between an object and an agent, a thing and a being. All of these factors led me to bestow a name on the basil plant in my home.
However ridiculous that may sound, I am not being (completely) facetious. As someone who values home-cooked meals and fresh ingredients, I deemed it necessary to buy a basil plant once I moved into my Charlottesville apartment. Almost as soon as I brought the plant home, I started to refer to it as a him — a fellow creature, whom I granted pronouns out of a sense of humor and an affection for all things living. The fact that the basil plant was alive and beautiful — bearing the most healthy, full, spring-green leaves — and now a constant presence in my apartment prompted me to grant him a name, an identity. I was attracted to the plant as a source of nourishment and beauty, and by taking him home I was promising to care for him, to not just bring him into my living space but also to keep him there as long as I could. In naming him, I was assigning a certain degree of worth and individuality to the plant — I viewed him as an important culinary and aesthetic accessory and distinct from all other basil plants. I was also expressing my intention to make him a long-term resident, demonstrating a certain practical investment that soon became an emotional one. Rather than considering the plant as a disposable tool, I was acknowledging that he was a living being whose needs and gifts deserved attention and appreciation.
What did I decide to call him? When no better idea presented itself, I kept the first name that occurred to me: Basil Bob. The sight of Basil Bob — as well as his silly name — made me smile. I kept him perched on the ledge of my kitchen window, soaking up the rays of our shared lord and master, the sun. When I watered him every other day, I pruned the leaves that had withered or developed brown spots so that he maintained a spruce appearance (botanical pun intended). On warm and sunny days, I placed him outside in a bright patch of light for a few hours; sometimes, to take a break from my computer and get some fresh air, I joined him. I think it will come as no surprise that I often told him how beautiful he was. Very soon, such daily care and attention attached me to this living, growing creature. Since my dog and cat were two states away with my parents, Basil Bob came to serve as a botanical substitute. Not that I genuinely thought of him as a pet; rather, he prompted me to acknowledge my need to care for and be in proximity to another living being, either adorable or beautiful, for the sake of my own happiness.
I intuitively have emotional reactions and attachments to plants, but I have also been taught to respect, identify, and name them by my parents. I grew up paying attention to trees and flowers thanks to my mother and father’s deep appreciation for them. Both parents impressed upon me not only the beauty of the earth but also its importance as our home, a living companion and source of sustenance. As a teenager, I also began to seek out nature for the emotional and spiritual solace that it offered. Though thunderstorms and tornadoes have caused me uneasiness and fear, I have been lucky and privileged that the natural world has primarily been a healing presence in my life. I love the scent of spring blooms, which paint the earth with bright scents and spots of color, as much as I joyfully anticipate the threads of woodsmoke that seems to make tangible the crisp, soul-stirring autumn air. I adore the way the deciduous trees of the South form dense canopies, almost blocking out the sky with their full summer green, but also the way their winter bareness makes visible the spines of the mountains and the horizon in its sunset colors of periwinkle, peach, and rose.
Like the writers Haskell and Kimmerer [1], I privilege my olfactory, auditory, and tactile sensitivity as much as sight in my engagement with nature. (For example, basil is more of a smell and a taste to me than an image.) Paying attention to the natural world makes me feel both more alive and at peace, simultaneously more fully human and profoundly connected to the great web of existence. I agree with Haskell that there is a connection between ethical sensibilities and an appreciation for the earth. The observation of nature teaches us about patient growth and cyclical patterns, about the awe-inspiring grandeur of eons — which give us a sense of the eternal, of our place in the vastness of space and time — as well as the lovely poignancy of the ephemeral. Nature demonstrates to us the countless beauties of life but also the necessity and even relief of death; it impresses upon us the consequences of both small and dramatic changes, calling on us to comprehend how our actions as human agents affect the landscape and the myriad lives around us. As Haskell points out, appreciating the value of lifeforms in the plant and animal worlds develops our ability to listen to and connect with other humans, to perceive and care about the needs of those around us. Additionally, as Kimmerer argues, the emotional and the spiritual are not only key aspects of the human identity but also important catalysts for moral and intellectual growth. Even an act as simple as taking care of a basil plant can instill in us an appreciation for beauty, for life, and for the beauty of nurturing life.
[1] Two authors whose work we read in my graduate class, Plants & Empire, for which this essay was written in April 2022.
