I started my journey with plants when I was fifteen: My first job was at a florist, and I was tasked with watering the plants out in the front of the shop. I learned little tricks over time, like lifting up each plant to gauge its weight before watering it. If it felt light, then add more water. If it felt heavy, let it dry out a little more.
I slowly learned the language of plants; how they tell us what they need. Drooping leaves? Set me in water overnight to have a long drink. Discolored leaves? Feed me some fertilizer, please.
Photo by Karolina Grabowska on Pexels.com
The first plant that I adopted was a nearly dead peace lily that I dug out of the trash. The pot was so small it could fit in the palm of my hand. I brought it home, soaked it in water until it started to revive, and planted it in a larger pot. I set it in our living room window and it began to flourish. Ever the cheeky teen, I decided to name it Paul the Peace Lily.
Paul accompanied me everywhere over the next few years: He sat in the window of my dorm room in college, came to my first apartment, traveled with me to my next few apartments, even tagged along in my car when I moved out to the East Coast from Minnesota for grad school. He grew and flourished and asked me for bigger pots. Even now, over twenty five years later, I still have many of Paul’s descendants sitting around my desk as I write this. Peace lilies and I. . . .we understand each other.
Learning the language of other plants has not come as easily to me over the years. I’ve learned it bit by bit from my community: Two of my greatest mentors, elders in my journey, have shown me their own patience and reverence in listening to plants and attending to what they need.
They don’t assume that they know everything that a plant might need, but they open themselves up to paying attention and letting each plant teach them and guide them and speak to them in its new language. Both of these elders have lived very difficult lives with incredible amounts of pain and joy mixed together. . .their lush and verdant gardens and thriving houseplants show how they have transformed their pain into creativity and connection to the earth and captured their joy into something tangible and real and beautiful.
My home office is now full of plants and grow lights and shelves where I always try to fit even more plants. I only had about a dozen plants before the pandemic, but then my green thumb became how I coped during those years of fear and anxiety and isolation. I’ve taken what I’ve learned from my elders and tried to bring it to my own experience with plants, but my journey is far from perfect and I often have way more mistakes with my plants than successes.
I do what I can. 🌱💔
What I know at this point is that plants will never stop teaching me, and I will always keep trying to listen and learn from what they have to say. They invite me into a different kind of attention and relationship. Although I often wish that I had an Instagram-worthy garden or picture-perfect display of houseplants, the reality is much different. . .more real.
I hope you join me on this imperfect, messy, and ever-changing journey of learning to listen to plants and better understand ourselves in the process.
