It is fall. Much like the plants that die down outdoors, there is a sense of season to the indoor variety. Two of my plants are calling it quits this year. They are going the way of over a million Covid deaths. It must be a good year to enter higher realms.
Nyasha is also losing a couple of bamboo. They are helped along by meddling cats, gnawing on the leaf ends, or going straight for a chomp at the stem.
Some of my plants have names. It really isn’t about connection, more about identification. Plants can be like pets, but I am scarred for life, damaged by foliage abandoment. In the past, I loved my indoor plants. They were my babies before the living, breathing, warm blooded variety. And then there were power outages, in winter, that lasted for weeks. Saving the animals, saving the children and the pipes, those were priority. The plants didn’t make it. And then they didn’t make it AGAIN. I was heartbroken. And I don’t connect as deeply.
The plants are vitality. They bring life in where space it devoid of nature. This house has a lot of wood features, another way of bringing the cycle of nature into a dead space. Ironically, dead nature, but nature none the less. So many apartments and houses are now created from materials that do not connect our hearts with God’s gifts of the earth, or they bring in items like marble, that are cold and harsh to our internal perception.
I feel a bit of guilt for being relieved when a house plant departs. Another responsibility off of my list. Check. Sacred cycles. I can let the plants go. They cannot die, not really. They continue on as soil that feeds the other plants. We all do. We all die, and yet live, continuing in the cycles of the earth and in the spiritual journey of Unity.