There’s a kind of silence I imagine only the moon could offer. The kind where your thoughts don’t echo back, just float. And somewhere in that stillness, maybe behind glass and hums of recycled air, a plant begins to uncurl.
I don’t think it’s far-fetched anymore—this idea of growing something green in a place so gray. We’re not talking about tossing seeds into craters. I mean careful growth. Closed-loop systems. Human hands and artificial light, helping something thrive in a place that can be so dark.
If I could choose, I’d start simple.
Coleus, for the color.
Butterfly pea, because I’d want blue tea.
Maybe mint—resilient, fragrant, a little unruly, like a reminder that even in confinement, life has texture.
I’d want plants not just for food, but for presence. A moment of softness. A leaf to touch. A scent that reminds you the world isn’t all aluminum and algorithms.
And yes, maybe we’re doing this for science—oxygen, food cycles, closed ecosystems. But maybe we’re also doing it because we’ve always reached for the stars and brought a little home with us when we could.
The truth is, learning how to grow plants on the moon might teach us how to care for Earth with more intention. How to work within limits. How to see value in every drop of water, every inch of soil.
Angel and I sometimes wonder what we’d grow if we had a tiny greenhouse in lunar orbit.
Maybe this isn’t really about space at all.
Maybe it’s about the parts of us that keep reaching, keep planting, keep thriving—wherever we go.
Kayla, Founder, Third Orbit Flora
Photo Credit: AI Gen w/ Digital Editing
Third Orbit Flora 
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