i used to be the one with trays of seedlings, a doorway arched by night-blooming tobaccos, a full daytime array of succulents and blooming cacti.
come over, i’d say. you need to see the san pedro.
lately, i’ve lost several houseplants, most of which i’ve had for a few years since settling into this little mountain town.
i’m not sure why either, which troubles me – i have yet to identify the dis-ease, the un-ease, the lack of ease with which i used to care so deeply for my chlorophyllic friends.
this, more than many things, has sent me into an emotional tailspin.
things in my care are dying.
i am in agony.
right now i’m surrounded by wild bloom – a veritable field of mushrooms appeared first, followed by an even larger field of miner’s lettuce and a huge patch of luneria. dandelions, already providing opportunities to wish. it is green and awe-inspiring. but also, it makes me a little sad. there is so much i cannot always walk softly. i haven’t yet learned how.
that’s the courage, too, i always say, of being a wildflower. you sprout where chance has placed you and start setting roots. you have a period of growth. if you are still lucky, you bloom where you are. if you are luckier still, you will be able to do that in a place where you will not get stepped on, where you will radiate with color and feed bees before you scatter your DNA and ascend, your essence carried on through the honey and the seeds…
it’s a risk you take if living in a pot doesn’t sound like an alternative to you, but even so you run the risk of having to push through pavement. just hope it’s a vacant lot. or a playground, depending how long you think you might want to have that trip.
what are we, though, really, without that particular struggle? it’s the thing that keeps us connected to the earth, the whole reason we’re here having this human experience, learning to be in harmony with ourselves and everything else. we will eventually learn it, or not. most children leave their mothers eventually.
whatever is inevitable is okay with me. all of it is as is. the journey will more than likely continue. or maybe not.
in the meantime, i wonder what is reflected in the death of my houseplants. is it simply a lesson to learn in letting go? if i take it as such, will i grow careless in places where i do not need to? or is it simply a message from my little green friends that i need to listen more closely, that the details of life really are far more complicated than i’d like to believe, that all things require dedicated focus and special care, and anything that doesn’t, doesn’t currently require my time. some things adapt to their circumstances, and some do not. there is always the compost, which is also a spiritual thing.
i know. i am sensitive, it’s true. i mourn the loss of my houseplants deeply, even though i understand that i am witnessing the cycle of life in all ways. And that i also have the power, here, to honor their deaths with dignity. it still hurts. i think all living things have sentience. something in my care is dying. i am in agony.