My Second Love

Originally written Monday, February 28, 2005

My friends Niall and Jim and I moved in together a few years ago. It was the first time I’d lived on my own, an observation that could be made easily by anyone who noticed my tremendous lack of useful possessions: no pots, pans or kitchen appliances, no end tables or couches, no lamps or pictures. In contrast, Jim had lots of useful possessions, as well as an overwhelming abundance of junk (a retinue of belongings that follow him to this day) and a great many plants.

My bedroom had an enormous window, and Jim’s did not (an unlucky coin toss on his part), so my room became the home for several of Jim’s plants. Although I suppose he would have looked after them if I hadn’t, I was soon watering and taking care of them as though they were my own. And oddly enough, I started to develop an attachment for them.

That’s one of the first things I noticed about my relationship with plants. It was a relationship. They provided me with decoration and the illusion that I was outside, even though I was trapped indoors studying for exams or working. I provided them with water and ensured they got sunlight. They took care of my mental wellbeing, and I cared for their physical wellbeing. A relationship based on mutual trust developed.

It’s odd when you realize that you care about a plant, that you have a favourite plant, that you feel sorry for a plant that is suffering because someone else is not tending to it. While buying smokes with Wayne one Saturday night before going to the bar, I noticed a small plant languishing under the feeble fluorescent lights of the store. It looked diseased and lonely and sad, somehow, so I bought it. It had begun. I was falling in love with plants. I was becoming a herbophile.

My friend Wayne, on the other hand, is a plant sociopath. To him, a plant is a colourful piece of furniture, no more desirous of water and attention than his couch. I imagine that when Wayne walks into a nursery, plants cower into their pots like Dalmations near Cruella DeVil. His apartment is scattered with the dead and dying remains of his purchases. Those that still cling to life do so because of my infrequent visits, when I always make sure to give them some water.

That’s one of the most remarkable things about plants: their incredible tenacity. Plants cling to life like nothing else. When Wayne bought a large cactus, with two main spiny trunks rising from the soil, and parked it near his perpetually covered window, I did not expect it to live. Although cacti can make do without much water, they certainly need light, or so I thought. Somehow, it stayed alive. I would water it each time I visited. After a long period of no water (I hadn’t been by in a while), the cactus could not go on without moisture. Instead of dying, it made a sacrifice: it took all the water out of one trunk, and put it in the other. The dehydrated trunk died, but the cactus lived on, and as far as I know, it’s still alive.

The ability of plants to renew themselves, to find a way to keep going, is encouraging. When I was making dinner on an exceptionally cold day this winter, I opened the window because it was getting so hot and smoky in the kitchen. The air entering the kitchen was so cold it froze the leaves of the plants that were near the window. The leaves of the plants promptly wilted, turned brown, and fell off. Weeks later, the plants are showing finally signs of rejuvenation. Small new green leaves are appearing. Each new leaf is a visible sign that the plant will live in spite of its scars:

This plant should be taken into protective custody.

Under the right conditions, plants grow incredibly quickly. One of my favourite plants here at home was just a single stalk, six inches tall, when I gave it to Casie. A couple years later, the plant is a many-stalked five-foot tall giant of a plant, and Casie and I are married. You could say that our relationship has grown like that plant. That’s why to me, plants are a symbol of hope, determination, and life. They are a daily reminder that survival is possible even when times are tough, and that growth and vibrant life will happen when something is carefully tended to.

This is the plant I gave Casie.

Poinsettias are the plant no one waters, because they expect them to live over Christmas and that’s it. Faced with no water, this plant shed most of its leaves.

But after a regimen of Beethoven and aromotherapy, it is showing signs of recovery in the form of tiny new leaves.

One of my favourite plants, this Norfolk Pine was given to me by Casie’s grandmother “Nanny”.