Last night, after I finished packing for a long trip, I decided to move all my succulents outside for the duration of our weeklong vacation. I have nine pots of various sizes on the bookshelves in our front room: one tiny barrel cacti, four plants that look like desert seaweed, and assorted echeveria in dark green and sage.
Transport took a few minutes. As I moved the succulents, I imagined them as tiny hedgehogs, porcupines, echidnas, needful of a good run around the kennel while their owners were away.
And then I thought, Wait, how did I turn into a plant lady?
We completed a big remodel last year, and after it was done I realized I wanted my bookshelves dotted with miniature succulent gardens in citrus-colored pots. I found a lemon-shaped bowl and an old olive oil can at a thrift store, and assorted crockery at Home Goods. Then I stopped by a succulent nursery for plants. At home, I spread a mat to catch the soil while I potted, wrapping the barrel cacti in a cloth so I didn’t get bitten.
I also worried. Succulents are hardy, but I have never done particularly well with plants. Mostly I don’t water them enough (which is why I chose succulents). But succulents have their own problems—they rot easily; they need a lot of sun; and like all plants, they thrive in particular conditions.
I didn’t want them to die. Houseplants make me feel like Elliot in ET—their demise somehow affects my own well-being. Malingering plants are zombies: they snuff out optimism, claw at my good intentions, mock my sense of competence. They accuse me of buying things I don’t care for properly. Plants growing in your house are a sign of hope and life; plants dying in your house are…not…
I was at The Mudroom yesterday, talking about learning how to stop taking failure so personally and instead view it as a step towards rebirth. Join me there?
This Is Not a Frank Peretti Novel