My plants are finally growing.
I live in an apartment; I don’t have a yard or even a balcony, so I have to grow everything inside in pots. This method is not something I have a talent for: I’ve thrown out plants covered in mold, plants withered past desiccation, and plants that threw up their hands at life for no reason I could discern.
Perhaps it has to do with my choice in plants: mostly I rescue them, from events and church services and other short lives as centerpieces that will end in the trash. I can’t stand the thought of plants being thrown out. It seems such a waste. They could keep growing, keep adding to the green in the world.
Which is why I rescued almost ten poinsettias last Christmas. A few promptly died, dropping all their leaves and turning brown. The rest died slowly, dropping their leaves a few at a time until there were only two or three or five stubborn wrinkled leaves, discolored and brittle. I kept watering them; the stems were still green, mostly, except for the few that had also died, so that mostly they all looked like sticks stuck in a pot by a toddler with a better imagination than me. I kept watering them. I figured they weren’t quite dead, I guess.
And now they’re growing new leaves, six months later. Finally. They have tender little leaves, of that brilliant green that is only in infant growth, growing out of joints on those still-green twigs. There are four of them, lined up on a shelf. They have passed the message along from one to the next, and they have all sprouted anew, right next to the Easter lily that is finally yellow and brittle and dead.
They’re growing new leaves! They aren’t dead!
And it gives me hope for all that I’m trying to grow in my own life, to the morning prayer and to the exercise, the cleaning and the writing, the unpacking and the decorating: everything I’ve added and taken away as I’ve been working to grow roots here, where I am. Every small thing I’ve done that felt like a tiny wave to a cruise ship when I can’t even see any windows, like whispering into the dark when everyone says only a shout will do, is something. It may not grow, like my poor Easter lily, but maybe it’s worth trying either way; maybe it’s worth rescuing no matter what the end result.