A cannabis paradise waits at the end of harvest

Once the clones are rooted, typically after a week or two, they need to be culled. It’s a process of weighing benefits and cutting losses, selecting the few that make the cut. For a moment, I have to remove myself from my own body and look at the plants with an unjaundiced eye. I appreciate the lessons learned from the clones that have died. I sit there satisfied with my work so far; I’ve brought life into this work and now I must care for them and carry it further. They need me. After what can be hours, I’ve narrowed the dozens of clones down to merely half a dozen that will be flowered. They made it. Their leaves are green and glossy, the smell is slightly minty with undertones of skunkiness similar to Heineken or Corona, and their young soft branches are just sturdy enough to go on to the next stage in their life.

The potential energy that sits in an immature or unharvested plant is a beautiful thing. Whether indoor or outdoor, flowering is like mixing colors on a palette. In order to get the color and picture you want, you need to have the right proportions of other colors. This is the time when the plants need and use the most attention. Beyond fertilizing, pruning, lighting, and watering, the best part is to just be with the plants. To sit and literally watch the grass grow is meditative and sometimes it’s downright spiritual. I’ll sometimes sit in the garden with a cup of coffee in the morning and just stare. I swear that I have actually seen the growth, or my eyes are playing tricks on me; nonetheless, it’s calming and pleasing to take in the garden for what it is. In the three months that it takes for a marijuana plant to grow, it shoots from under a foot tall to almost 6 feet or more if not pruned correctly. Over time, crystals will travel down the leaves, buds will develop between branches, and little hairs will weave their way through the buds. The smell at this point is unmistakable and lingers and bursts into the air if I happen to brush the plant. Some plants are fruity, others sour, but always with a distinct undertone of skunk.

In the end, the buds have to be harvested. Just before harvest, the crystals are at their peak (ideally) and this is the time for sunrises and sunsets. When the sun finds its way down past the horizon, but there’s only a little blue in the sky, that’s when the buds look their best. Months and months of care, planning and attention are at their precipice. The plants will glow and radiate. I go around to each plant and size them up to note their strengths and weaknesses. Maybe I’ll need to add support to branches about to snap under their own weight or take out my jewelers’ loupe to better inspect the leaves, buds, stems, and branches. Using the jewelers’ loupe, a compact magnifying glass, is when I am truly enfolded in the beauty of the plant.

The crystals pop out against the green backdrop, ranging in color from amber to clear to milky white. They all glisten and shimmer as the plant and my body move to the rhythm of my heart beat. It’s a moment difficult to recreate, making it that much more enjoyable.

The plants are cut down and trimmed. Trimming is dull, tedious, and many other synonyms for “boring.” It doesn’t bring anyone joy, but after that comes drying and curing the plant. It’s a craft all in itself. It took me years to cure marijuana correctly, and that can be the difference between a good smoke and a harsh coughing fit. This step is one that makes growing fun and crafty, like I’m in an episode of Martha Stewart Living. The dried plant is put into mason jars, then the jars are put into a cedar chest. Then two times a day for two weeks, the jars are “burped” or opened for a few minutes, resealed and put back in the box. Once that is done, the bud is ready for smoking, processing or storing. These two weeks are where the bud really develops its flavor profile, and each day offers a new smell. It’s a real treat for the nose, a journey for the olfactory senses. The first day the bud smells like chlorophyll or cut grass, maybe even the second day. Slowly, it starts to smell like rotten fruit and it stays that way for about a week. Then the pungent aromas smooth out; they don’t quite attack the nose anymore.

I’ve never been the guy that wears Rastafarian colors, spouts pro-marijuana propaganda, or acts like a typical stoner. I’m not one to advertise my beliefs unsolicited. It’s not my beliefs, or clothes, or politics that bring me joy while gardening; it’s the process of growing and the meticulous crafting that keeps my attention.