As I was sitting here trying to figure out what to slice about today, I was admiring my house plants. My plants spoke to me and I had my slice.
My mom had a passion for growing things. She always had a house full of plants and amazing gardens outside, both flowers and vegetables. In our family growing up, almost all of our vegetables were homegrown. We were eating “farm to table” long before it was trendy. She could grow anything. Every room in the house was full of green all year long. All of my siblings have the same skill. Their gardens could be in magazines or on garden walks.
For me though it has always been a struggle. I’ve inadvertently caused the premature death of many a plant. I once bought an air plant, thinking I can’t possibly kill this one. I promptly had a kitchen fire and yet another dead plant. I gave up for a long time.
For a few years when my children were little my mom lived with us and we had beautiful gardens. My friends complimented our gardens. A few years later, my mom moved in with my sister and my plants withered. She visited mostly every weekend and she tried to help me keep the outdoor garden going, but my attention was elsewhere and soon there were more weeds than flowers. She offered to leave some of her indoor plants behind, but I declined, unsure if they would survive under my supervision.
When my mom died last year, my coworkers gave me a basket of four plants, representing myself and my three siblings. My sister also gave me cuttings of some of my moms oldest plants, ones that had been around since I was a child. I took a deep breath and plunged in to the task, determined to keep these green creatures from natures compost pile. So far my commitment to their survival has been mostly successful. I did lose two from the set of four, but the others are thriving. I know for me it will continue to be a work in progress. Now, maybe this summer, I can make at least a small section of my yard bloom.