Across the room, atop my kitchen windowsill, plants gleam in the growing eastern light. At the end of the row sit the smallest pots, holding the smallest specimens. Week after week I had witnessed the slow, certain decline to death of a friend’s large houseplant. Often I marveled that it was still alive and gave specific instructions for how to intervene on its behalf. Finally I offered to bring it home and tend to it myself. The surgery was not a pretty sight, but an interesting one, for I lopped the plant right off save for an inch. I then plucked all the leaves from the withering branches now brought into hasty certainty of their imminent decay. I repotted the root ball and stump, watered it and hoped it would recover. Then I fashioned a tray with a layer of dirt and stuck singular leaves into it like rows of candles in a cake. Wetting my hand, I splashed water on the dirt and cheered on the little leaves to send out roots and find their drink. Every day I repeated the sparse hydration of the dirt and the encouragement of my patients. I resisted the urge to check their growth prematurely.
After a couple of weeks, one by one, I pulled them up to examine how their wounds were healing. From most, at the cut end, I found thin white delicate roots. I rejoiced that so many had recovered. After carefully replanting them, I continued their resuscitation in the same way and was resigned to have the large tray cluttering my kitchen countertop for some time to come. In another month it was moving day. Pots full of fresh dirt stood ready to receive the little toddlers. I decided, for practicality, to keep only the ones with the strongest roots and multiple leaves, which allowed for still more than 20. I rearranged all of the plants in my house to give the propagations their best chance at flourishing. I repeated this checking, re-potting and culling until now there stands the healthy mother plant and healthy adolescents. Eight months have passed now and I no longer give them a daily thought, but a brief weekly attention as I water them with the rest.
Yesterday, as I sat across the room from my counselor I wondered why I was still so sad. It had been nearly 2 years since my separation, a year since investigations, 5 months since trial, 3 months since divorce. I had wept. I had yelled. I had read and listened. Slept and talked. Worked and played. I had cultivated beauty in my life, spent as much time as possible in nature and a shocking amount of time lying in my bathtub. Why did I more often than not, still feel so raw as to not want to face life many days? I was impatient with myself. Ready to be over all the turmoil of my marriage.
She began about roots. About how being transplanted or propagated was no quick matter. So much growth and healing lies unseen, even to ourselves. When I left my abuser, I was depleted in every way. The past couple of years' effort had relied on residual reserves. Could I be kind to myself and realistic about my journey?
Now, here at my kitchen table, I stare at my plants and consider. The truth is, 16 years, no matter how difficult, is more than enough time to form a network of life - roots. I can’t imagine the absurdity of judging and condemning those little freshly torn leaves for not healing faster. I will admit that I am surprised by how slow their marked growth is to date. But, I also understand there are limited options for how I can influence the pace of their flourishing. Can I be patient and diligent with myself as I am with them? I don’t know. But, I want to try. To acknowledge my blessings without dismissing my longings. To believe I am valuable when so few have remained. To cheer myself on when my tears are what wet the dirt. To let myself recover for as long as it takes with a vision of how I would like to recover. And have hope. This is the hardest one.
