Plants I have loved...

           

Not long ago I heard an interview with Rabbi Zalman, a sort of hippie Jewish-Buddhist guy big in death and dying circles. The Rabbi was talking about forgiveness and mentioned that often when he gives lectures on forgiveness he is asked, “What about Hitler? How can we forgive him?”  He laughed and said, "Why does everyone want to start with the big guy? Why not start small?"  And he gave examples of how we forgive small infractions often throughout the day. Start there, he argued, and work your way up. He went on to mention the message of another person (whose name I’ve forgotten) who wrote on learning to love with a similar point.  When we say we want to learn how to love, we often are talking about loving a different person with a different gender.  How can we expect to start there?  Again, he laughed, and said, "Why not start small?  Start with a plant.  Learn to love a plant first."

My grandmother was a gardener and her house and yard were filled with plants and flowers. I am not of that bent, but one of the very first things I purchased when I moved into my new apartment last summer was an African violet.  My grandmother and mother always had several and it seemed like the right plant to occupy the windowsill by my breakfast table (which is also my lunch and dinner table). When I served my stint in the dean’s office, someone mentioned that my office seemed sterile and needed a plant. I went out and bought a cyclamen with variegated leaves and pink flowers.  It bloomed for a while, and moved with me from office to office. But, when I made the last move to Lyman Hall I decided to bring it home.  It recently has started to bloom again and has joined my violet on the windowsill.  At Christmas, my friend was concerned that I wouldn’t have a tree and gave me a very small potted Norfolk pine adorned with her daughter's popsicle stick ornaments.  It still sits on my coffee table and is growing nicely with its glitter snowflakes and Santa hat decoration, oblivious to the changing seasons.

But, those stories may give an erroneous impression of my ability to love a plant.  There were several planters sent to my mother’s funeral and afterward we divided them amongst ourselves. I wanted to keep those plants as a reminder of my mother. I wanted to be able to point to them years later and say fondly, “That plant came from my mother’s funeral.”  My planter had a perilous journey back to New York, having to be overnight shipped after I left it in a hotel room on the way home.  Over time the plants faded, the cats chewed them, I lost track of which were which as they were repotted.  Now, they are gone.

 

I suppose I wasn’t good at loving in that case.  But, now I have a chance to start over with my African violet, pink cyclamen, and Norfolk pine…..