There’s something undeniably special about plants, isn’t there? They possess this calm, quiet presence, effortlessly thriving amidst the chaos of life. I’ve always felt a profound connection to them, even if our relationship has been a bit… complicated.
My journey into the world of plants began with the dream of creating a lush jungle in our apartment. I envisioned greenery everywhere: big, small, leafy, spiky, and vibrant. So, in true optimistic fashion, I decided to take on the challenge of owning a bonsai. It felt like the perfect combination of beauty and patience. I thought, “How hard could it be?” Spoiler alert: bonsai number one didn’t survive. But did I let that stop me? Of course not! Fueled by determination, I purchased a second bonsai, convinced that this time would be different. Fast forward to bonsai number three – let’s just say my bonsai dreams are currently on hold, but one day, I might give it another shot.
At the same time, my plant obsession began to blossom. I started exploring different types – herbs, water plants, air plants, you name it. I thought water plants would be easy to care for, but they didn’t last long. The air plants? They seemed like they should thrive, yet they didn’t find their rhythm in my home. And the herbs? Well, they only managed a few harvests before waving their white flags.
Maybe living on the third floor without a balcony is part of the problem, but despite the setbacks, I persist. Each time one of my plants survives, even if it’s just barely clinging on, I feel a surge of calm and pride wash over me. It’s as if they’re saying, “We’re still here, and so are you.”
Even though I’ve had my fair share of plant failures, it’s not all doom and gloom in my little plant world. Take the plant my friend gave me for my first birthday in Germany. It’s been through its own drama-near-death experiences, shriveled leaves, probably thinking, “What did I do to deserve this?!” But somehow, I always manage to bring it back from the brink. It used to be this grand, beautiful floor plant, and now, well, let’s just say it’s been downsized. But it’s still here! I’ve even made peace with its new role as a humble table plant. You could say we’ve both adapted.
Then, I discovered the Monstera – the plant touted for its easy care. I bought several varieties, and while some flourished with enthusiasm, others didn’t quite share the same staying power. But the simple Monstera plant thrived, and I’ve even clipped a few to share with friends, spreading the joy of my green companions.
Oh and there’s my money plant. This one has a special story – it started as just a clipping from my mother-in-law’s plant in Austria. I brought it home, and from six little leaves, it’s turned into this massive, leafy shrub that’s grown so wildly I’ve lost count of its leaves! Every time I look at it, I think about how far it’s come, and it’s like a quiet reminder of growth, both literal and figurative. Not all the plants from my mother-in-law fared as well, though. She also gave me an aloe vera clipping, which, despite my best efforts, didn’t make it.
Of course, my friends often poke fun at my plant obsession. One even pointed to a poster that read, “No! Not her! She’s going to take me home and kill me slowly!” – my plant on the pay-off counter” And my husband? He has his own take on my plant saga: “In the beginning, there was green…” That’s usually the start (and end) of his version of the story!
Over time, I’ve learned to better tune into my plants’ needs. In the past, I’d notice signs of distress – like yellowing leaves or soil that felt a bit too dry – but I was often too busy to act. Now, I trust my instincts. When I sense something’s off, I spring into action to provide them with the care they need. Those moments of intervention can feel meditative, and they fly by in the best possible way.
In a way, these plants are a reminder for me to stay present, to be rooted in the moment. Just like them, I keep going – sometimes thriving, sometimes just surviving, but always moving forward. Every time I pause to care for them, or even just look at them, it’s like they pull me back into the here and now. It’s a tiny moment of stillness, of simplicity, that reminds me to breathe, slow down, and appreciate the small things in life.
My plants may not always thrive, but they’ve taught me that growth, even slow or imperfect, is still growth. And maybe that’s the biggest lesson of all – whether it’s with plants or in life, you just keep showing up, doing your best, and appreciating the little moments of stillness along the way.