Plants
Tomorrow's my grandma's birthday—or would have been her birthday. 75. I don't know what the right approach is for this—mention it to my grandpa and mom, that I'm thinking of her on this day, or don't. It doesn't really matter. I think about her every day. But this day is specifically her day. If I'd been thinking ahead, I would have had flowers delivered to my mom—she's been having a rough couple of weeks anyway—but I didn't think ahead.
Last year I got Grandma flowers for her birthday and gave them to her at the beginning of a lake weekend. She texted me later that week to tell me they still looked beautiful.
But anyway. What I really meant to write about is how my plants are going crazy. Look at these suckers.
They're too big for their pots. They're so big two of the three can't sit on the window sill anymore because the weight of the overflowing plant makes them topple off.
I have something like 13 or 15 houseplants now, all accumulated in the last three years or so. Before that I had none. Gardening isn't something I ever thought I'd be into—and I'm not, not like real gardeners who take meticulous care of their roses or use fertilizer on a regular basis—but there is something about it I've taken to. There's something really satisfying about seeing plants grow, about seeing my windowsill mix of spiders plants and Swedish ivy and dieffenbachia and purple passion, all of them healthy and green and flourishing and growing full. But I can't ever bring myself to trim them back much, or to cut big pieces off without rooting them and turning them into a new plant, which is a recipe for trouble. I'm running out of window space.
In a way it reminds me of my sophomore year in college, when I'd started to settle in a bit to life at Ball State but was still in general feeling out of place. I had friends and was keeping busy, and my homesickness had lost that sharp edge, but I still didn't really feel like I belonged there. A few months into the year, I got a beta fish. I don't even remember what I called him, but he was a blue and purple beta that I kept in a tank on the dresser of my single on the co-ed floor of the honors dorm. He was just a silly little $3.99 fish from Meijer, but as soon as I got him, I felt a little less alone. It felt good to have something to take care of.
I don't feel out of place in my life now, but there's that same sense of satisfaction and rightness in taking care of something. I could probably spin it into some grand sentiment about being a part of life and the universe and Mother Nature and whatever, but the bottom line is that taking care of things, seeing things grow, makes some part of me feel satisfied.
I also feel satisfied when I make chocolate chip cookies.
Last year I got Grandma flowers for her birthday and gave them to her at the beginning of a lake weekend. She texted me later that week to tell me they still looked beautiful.
But anyway. What I really meant to write about is how my plants are going crazy. Look at these suckers.
I have something like 13 or 15 houseplants now, all accumulated in the last three years or so. Before that I had none. Gardening isn't something I ever thought I'd be into—and I'm not, not like real gardeners who take meticulous care of their roses or use fertilizer on a regular basis—but there is something about it I've taken to. There's something really satisfying about seeing plants grow, about seeing my windowsill mix of spiders plants and Swedish ivy and dieffenbachia and purple passion, all of them healthy and green and flourishing and growing full. But I can't ever bring myself to trim them back much, or to cut big pieces off without rooting them and turning them into a new plant, which is a recipe for trouble. I'm running out of window space.
In a way it reminds me of my sophomore year in college, when I'd started to settle in a bit to life at Ball State but was still in general feeling out of place. I had friends and was keeping busy, and my homesickness had lost that sharp edge, but I still didn't really feel like I belonged there. A few months into the year, I got a beta fish. I don't even remember what I called him, but he was a blue and purple beta that I kept in a tank on the dresser of my single on the co-ed floor of the honors dorm. He was just a silly little $3.99 fish from Meijer, but as soon as I got him, I felt a little less alone. It felt good to have something to take care of.
I don't feel out of place in my life now, but there's that same sense of satisfaction and rightness in taking care of something. I could probably spin it into some grand sentiment about being a part of life and the universe and Mother Nature and whatever, but the bottom line is that taking care of things, seeing things grow, makes some part of me feel satisfied.
I also feel satisfied when I make chocolate chip cookies.