plant school

 

One of the markets that managed to fare well during the pandemic was houseplants - here in the west we invested lots of time and money on our plant relatives. And although it's a symptom of our general mass consumption, this one didn't annoy me as the usual transactional exchanges tend to. It made sense - we were stuck indoors. And because I took many walks during the first pandemic lockdown in New York, I witnessed the fact that spring happened, relatively unobserved by the human demographic. I saw buds emerge, patches of strawberries and flowers burst open relatively on their own. 

I know why I went houseplant crazy. 

I had recently returned to Denmark, and my friend gifted me with a pin-striped calathea - or prayer plant. With its deep green leaves and pink pin stripes, I was intrigued. As with all plants in my possession, I immediately read what I could about this plant: they grew on the floor of the Amazon, they needed moist soil and not too much direct sunlight. There was something about this plant that moved so dramatically at times, I could hear its leaves ruffle, that captured my imagination. I wondered if we had met each other before, through some ancestral exchange, many many years ago, deep in the Amazon? I'm sure at least one of my ancestors gazed upon one. 

This sparked a compulsion to buy tropical plants. If I couldn't be in Trinidad, then I was going to make Trinidad come here. I couldn't stop. I bought monsteras, ferns, alocasias, even a coconut tree which I thought would die but survived the dark Danish winter. This is how I ended up with the caladium pictured above. Its leaves took me back to Trinidad and the many plants my grandmother grew not just in her yard, but in beautiful terracotta pots put to stand on our gallery - what we call a porch in Trinidad. 

So I fell in love with this plant - as I did with all of my other fifty or so plants, and my heart faltered as it began to wane last fall, it's last large leaf falling like any other great empire. We all have to fall - no matter how beautiful. No matter how regal. And it did. Its beautiful white browning, its strong stalk faltering. I chopped it at last, left the soil to dry out and knew that under the soil there were treasures to be found. 

I kept the corms. I told myself that at the first sign of warmth, I will plant them and wait. I hadn't expected it to work, to be honest. And after I planted them, embedded them in moist soil and placed them on the windowsill, I then had the gall to leave town, much longer than expected and although Christian Mohammed takes care of my plants while I'm gone - I hadn't wanted to trouble him with the pot of soil that had no signs of life. I thought that was asking too much. 

When I returned, I found shoots. The soil was dry and so I watered, knowing that it was quite possible that I had blown it - these stalks were dead. But. Lo and behold - it continued to grow. And I suppose that's why I surround myself with an insane number of plants. Because although we humans are not deserving, well, at least many of us - my soul is enthralled with the magic of it all; of this ability to seemingly halt its growth, rest during the darkest months and suddenly, push through the darkness, producing - according to its DNA some of the. most resplendent leaves I (and certainly my ancestors) have ever laid our eyes upon. And perhaps you too. Aren't they beautiful? 

Some of my best teachers are plants. 

All I have to do is shut up, listen and observe. It's free too. 

adieu, 

the lab