Let me preface this by saying I wish I had an objectively cooler quarantine activity to write about. My sourdough starter came and went a sticky mess, no 6-pack has emerged from my torso, and I still suck at juggling. My two options for this are plants and knitting; strap yourselves in for a wild ride gangstas!
Purchasing indoor plants was something I had remained hesitant about well before COVID, purely because I didn’t think I had the time to maintain them. And then that ceased to be an acceptable excuse. I don’t know if I eventually gave in because I was sick of having to see greenery outside while being locked up all day, or if herbs suddenly seemed really overpriced.
The first plant I got was a birthday gift. A tiny terracotta pot with a few klavertje clover seeds, and a peat tablet. It took a while to grow, thanks to my wildly infrequent watering. Seriously, no consistency whatsoever, just random urges to drown this poor sapling from time to time. For a few weeks it was just tiny buds, tiny leaves popping in and out, in spite of my surprise attacks. I brought in a basil plant next, followed by mint and a mini Aloe Vera plant. All three grew nicely in the summer, but thanks to my lack of plant-care knowledge, I used up the mint without any understanding of harvesting times and propagation techniques to actually keep it around for much longer. My most recent addition was the Chinese Money plant, my giant of the group. I’m also trying to grow coriander at the moment and some microgreens, whilst propagating a few others, that’s the general gist anyway. No, I don’t grow weed.
Tending to something, particularly in a time where circumstances seem wildly out of our control seems strangely remedial. So much of what I get done in the morning revolves around this base ritual of checking and watering my plants. It didn’t really occur to me that taking care of something else encourages you to take care of yourself. But I don’t mean to reduce this to a pretentious platitude on self-care. All I can say for certain is that through perhaps some of the worst days of this year, I’ve had a windowsill lined with reminders that the mundane, the ordinary, repetitive, boring daily, tiny things we do can mean something in the end. None of this makes any sense. Just remember: underwatering is better than overwatering.
Living on your own is tough. Living on your own during a global pandemic is plain cruel. But it’s been nearly 7 months and I think I’ve done a decent job of staying sane. And I can’t help but think it’s in part thanks to my green buddies farting out oxygen in the only space I don’t have to wear a mask (anymore). This is your sign. Get a new plant. Just do it. It’s worth it.
Quarantimes 