I was surrounded by geraniums the way a gazelle is surrounded by lions. Having already watered David and Jodi’s plants for more than half an hour, I was beginning to think the sun would set before I finished.
David and Jodi had opened their home to us when they visited family back east last winter. All they asked was that we water the plants.
Why We Wrote This
Nature is patient and persuasive, and can turn a burdensome chore into an occasion for celebration.
Then we opened Jodi’s email with instructions: There were 20 geraniums, at least – maybe just on the first floor. But also moth orchids, vining- and split-leaf philodendrons, five kinds of lily, fan palms, prayer plants, snake plants, a giant ficus, and a dragon tree.
We’d spent 50 minutes on task when I carted the watering cans upstairs. I entered the main bedroom. The window was full of afternoon light, the sunbeams a river cascading down on a floor covered with plants that were fecund and flourishing.
As quickly as light falls on leaves, my attitude changed. I was part of a living, breathing place. Every blossom and leaf made me smile.
I was surrounded by plants the way a river stone is surrounded by water.
I was surrounded by geraniums the way a gazelle is surrounded by a pride of lions. Each one had its red blossoms bared, growling to be watered. I thought I’d already watered the one with five heads, but with 12 plants encircling me, it was hard to remember. And having already watered David and Jodi’s plants for more than half an hour, I was beginning to think the sun would set before I finished the whole house.
Under my breath I muttered that only retired people whose children lived half a continent away had this sort of time. Not a single plant looked stressed. No wilted leaves. Jodi and David were keeping them all blissfully alive. How? We were in Montana! Most of these plants came from near the equator.
Nikea and I live in a basement apartment in western Montana. Even during the summer months, cold clings to the air, and the sun struggles through the window wells. Winter’s short days make us wither in the dark.
Why We Wrote This
Nature is patient and persuasive, and can turn a burdensome chore into an occasion for celebration.
David and Jodi live upriver and above ground. When they were young and living in the same city as we do now, they also experienced a submerged life and so recognize the need for light. This empathy resulted in their opening their home to us when they visited family back east last February.
We fantasized about warming ourselves, basking like cats in front of their many south-facing windows. All they asked was that we take out the garbage, pick up the mail, and water the plants.
We’d watered plants before: a potted basil above the sink, an aloe on the windowsill, a Christmas cactus on a cabinet. Nikea and I could handle this.
We’d spent many evenings dining with David and Jodi. We’d sat and socialized in the room with the enormous ficus tree more than 8 feet tall. But it wasn’t until we opened Jodi’s email with specific instructions that we realized how many plants they had.
There were 20 geraniums, at least – maybe just on the first floor. But also moth orchids, vining- and split-leaf philodendrons, five kinds of lily, fan palms, prayer plants, snake plants, and a dragon tree.
Tendrils unfurled from hanging pots and brushed our heads. Fronds the length of my arm curtained pots. Leaves the size of my chest swayed against our hands and legs.
Nikea called to me from the kitchen as I methodically searched windowsills and bookshelves for plants: “A half-cup for those cornstalk plants! Just a splash under the faucet for the white lilies!”
We’d spent 50 minutes on task when I carted the watering can to the landing. How much more was there to do?
I peeked into the upstairs shower, half dutifully and half incredulously that I’d find a plant. But there it was! By the sliding window sat a needled being that I held under the shower head for a moment. Was it a cactus? Why did it need to be in the shower?
By the time I finished the plants in the guest room, the chore had eclipsed an hour. I lugged two watering cans into the main bedroom and found the floor covered in green. The window was full of afternoon light, the sunbeams a river cascading down on the plants. I don’t think one can smell photosynthesis, but in that moment of warmth, light, and feasting plants, I smelled the living beings we’d been entrusted to water. They were fecund and bright, flourishing with vitality.
And as quickly as light falls on leaves, that’s how quickly my attitude changed toward these plants. I felt responsible. I felt as though I were part of a living, breathing place. Every blossom and leaf brought a smile to my face. I felt more human in the presence of all this life.
Careful not to spill water on the carpet, I reveled in the warm breath of this green family. I chided myself for thinking this was taking too long. I saw and smelled what David and Jodi must see and smell every time they walk into these rooms to care for their plants, these organisms that eat light and change the very air we breathe.
I was surrounded by plants the way a river stone is surrounded by water.