What I Know About Plants
By: Lacey Daniels, Practice Manager
I’m a plant parent. My home is the home to me and a couple dozen (and counting!) plant babies. I loved them all so much already, but over the last several months of living in my home (this place of peace and solitude is now also a setting for office work and virtual social interaction), they’ve become close companions. They are to whom I say good morning and goodnight. It is for them that I rearrange my furniture to make sure they’re getting the best of all available window light. Throughout the day I visit with them, ping-ponging from plant baby to plant baby, whispering sweet nothings about how beautiful they are, how lush. With gleeful coos I celebrate every new sprouted leaf, uncurling as it stretches toward the light. It’s been a pleasure to witness and measure their subtle changes in daily increments.
My original purpose for using plants as my main house decor was for my own benefit: I want to be surrounded by greenery all year long, I want the air I breathe at home to be fresh. I wanted them to make me happy. Some didn’t survive. I didn’t know what they needed to thrive and I couldn’t figure it out. I kept one or two (or three or four…) hanging on for dear life until, finally, defeated and disappointed, I moved the whole damn pot into the garage and out of my sight, where any remaining life shriveled to a brown crunch. Over time my attitude shifted: I want them to live! Thrive! Multiply! I’m not satisfied with remaining ignorant to the needs of those in my care, indifferent to the survival of a fellow living organism. Not repeating the mistakes of my plant parenthood past requires intention and attention. The ill-advised theory of neglect will not do. Our relationship is now what it’s always been, unbeknownst to me: symbiotic. They need me as much as I need them. What I’m finding within myself is a growing drive to nurture and care for these living creatures that depend on me for their survival.
You can read about plant care on the internet, of course, but how many times have I found that symptoms of a suffering plant could stem from too much light or too little, from too much water or too little, from too much space or too little? I find the most valuable knowledge comes from observation: closely inspecting the leaves one by one, fingering the dirt, searching for signs using all my senses. I can’t always draw an immediate conclusion, so I have to ask: What do you need, baby?
Over the weekend I took to pruning one of my plants, a schefflera (or umbrella tree). Its branches were growing closer to sideways than up and if they kept going in that direction, the whole plant would eventually topple over, unable to stand. I positioned my shears halfway up the branch, closed my eyes, and clipped. It’s painful to take a sharp object to my beloved. What if it’s a mistake? What if it never grows back? What if I kill it? But I clip anyway, and then twice more, saving all the unrooted parts to propagate into new plants.
In a couple days, the wounds I’ve inflicted become scars. I cross my fingers. What I know about plants is that pruning allows for energy from the sun to be redirected from the leaves to the roots hidden under the dirt. It may be weeks or months before I see a new leaf sprout on my umbrella tree, but all the while the roots are hard at work, stretching and growing stronger, reaching deeper, further solidifying its place in the earth, if only as much earth as the pot is deep and wide.
This underground growth is not accessible by the senses, so it’s easily questioned, doubted. Is anything even happening under there? I could dig it up, rip the plant right out of it’s cozy dirt hole and see for myself what is only evident by the green foliage expanding above the surface. What I know about plants is that this would be a surefire way to risk its life. No, there are two things I can do: wait and trust. I trust that vibrant leaves mean healthy roots. I trust that with continued care, attention, and proper nourishment, new growth will sprout, not just anywhere, but at the very point of scarring and my schefflera will begin growing in a new direction, more upright. I trust that the new growth will be fuller, stronger, healthier, more resilient than it ever could have been growing sideways. The scars may remain forever, but they’ll eventually be hard to spot through the new green. This is where the waiting comes in. Growth takes time.
What I know about plants is that each one comes with special care instructions, some written out and easy to find, some made known only by curious and intentful discovery. What is nourishment for one could be harmful for another. I can’t force one plant into my expectations garnered from my experience of another. Perhaps it is from the quietest and littlest of living things that we are offered the understanding we need to become the beings we desire and were born to be: that growth is almost always accompanied by pain and uncertainty, that vitality of life is not a guarantee, certainly not without authentic and intentional action, that the path to wellness and alignment is continuous, meandering, and rarely one-size-fits-all. The same is true for my body. The same is true for my friendships. I can’t wish it to be what I want it to be; I am it’s caretaker, but it is my guide. So I ask, What do you need, baby?