To All the Plants I’ve Forgotten
RIP ‘Lil Green Buddies
I swear I want to have a garden. I buy plants and visit garden centers. I YouTube how to keep a succulent alive. I cluster them in my home and yard in hopes that they will not go unwatered.
And yet I persist.
I walk by the “sweet spot” of sunlight in our guest room. Wouldn’t you know it? There’s an untended plant there. It’s parched and hanging on for dear life. Sometimes I arrive too late.
I assume our bathroom is a safe space. It’s visited more frequently than perhaps most rooms in our house. At least daily on multiple occasions. There’s no way I could forget to water a plant in there. We have a nice large window, and I’ve placed a snake plant nearby, which someone told me are quite durable indoor plants. I check again just now to ensure she is in fact alive. I’m happy to report that while she may not be thriving, she is indeed alive.
When my sister-in-law moved to Mexico two months ago she left me with an entire horde of house plants I didn’t ask for. I was already beyond my capacity to care for the several plants in my home and yet here were 12 more willing victims submitting to my in frequent care. Thankfully I was able to pawn a couple of them off to a mostly willing participant, though his house is not much better than my own as far as plant death goes.
We refer to our dining room as “the fishbowl” in our house. The fishbowl has a large picture window with lead framed glass panes. It also has two small side casement windows, and another double casement window that peeks out onto our front porch. I’ve managed to keep a selection of inherited, donated, and purchased house plants alive in this well-lit corner of our home. I’ve read recently that casement windows are more welcoming than regular windows. I can’t say why exactly, but I agree.
This little neighborhood of plants in the fishbowl includes “Henry,” the first plant I was ever gifted by my college roommate, senior year. She named him. I can neither confirm nor deny if the houseplant is OG Henry, or one of his offspring who managed to hold on for dear life in my home all these years.
My backyard is my spring and fall oasis. A few years ago I made an indulgent purchase of a floating egg chair. It calms my frayed nervous system at the end of days when I am out spoons and too far from the California coastline for a beach visit.
After I was accosted by a rogue beetle yesterday, while floating in said chair, I decided that today I would give myself double time in the great outdoors of my backyard. Whilst floating I noticed my collection of succulents — some fairing better than others. Then I noticed my lemon tree that seems to bare fruit nearly year round. Next I noticed our accidental tomato plant (grandma would be proud). We think a rogue tomato died in our planter then decided upon rebirth in the same location. This is the third year. We’ve had Roma tomatoes in our yard with little to no effort on our part.
I would be remiss to leave out my crown jewel: a hydrangea purchased for $24 from Costco this summer when I felt homesick for the only place I’ve never lived, São Miguel island in the Azores off Portugal’s coast. She’s doing alright so far. Her sister is struggling after my dogs found her a little too interesting and dug her up four times. I’m not ready to call in hospice, but she’s definitely in the ICU.
What prompted this garden tour, you ask? A social media post from a neuroscientist I follow that said:
“One of the biggest mistakes you can make is to compare yourself to people who have larger support systems than you.” - Dr. Caroline Leaf
Damn, Dr. girl. I wasn’t ready.
My plants haven’t all received equal treatment. I don’t expect them all to thrive (or die) at the same intervals. They’re figuring it out one way or the other. Maybe I’m doing alright, doing my best figuring it out with what I’ve been given and cobbled together over the years.
You probably are, too. 🪴