Updated: Apr 7, 2021
I bought my first plant a little over two years ago when I moved into what I liked to call my first "adult" apartment. I went to Roots on Van Ness during my lunch break and bought a jade pothos (Blake), a peperomia rosso (RIP Beyonce), and a dracaena compacta (Bob).
Three apartments and 25 plants later, I am still smitten with my plant babies. As cheesy as it sounds, plants are indeed a form of therapy for me. Watering, pruning, and sometimes even repotting them has been cathartic. And seeing something you bought as a little sprout grow into something twice its size, tall and proud or trailing with leafy tendrils makes me feel proud.
I did that. I nurtured that. I didn't kill it!
They say that when you talk to a plant, it can hear you. And if you say kind words, it will feed off of it and grow exponentially. I can't say I believe this or not, but as an only child with a vivid imagination even as a grown ass adult - I went with it. I even went to the extent of naming one of my plants Abigail per the recommendation of an IG post (because where else would I get advice?). The intention is you would never say something mean to a plant, and shamefully I've said some really fucked up things to myself in the past. I should've named one after love.
I made watering schedules when I would go on trips. I bought plant equipment. I took up all the space in our apartment and spent money on planters and hooks and hangers. I got sweaty and dirty changing out the soil. I rotated those who didn't get enough sunlight. I put those who didn't get enough humidity in the shower. I misted the others. I sang, and said, "Good morning" and thanked them for new growth.
I took care of each and every one of my plants, but I forgot to take care of you.