2. The resilience of green, growing things.
I don’t know if I could say I have a purple thumb, because I don’t know what that would mean, though I love purple enough that nearly everything else in my life is purple, plum, mauve, lavender, lilac, violet, or something in that category.
All I can say is that my thumb has not been known for being green. In fact, I have for most of my life had trouble keeping any plant alive.
So I feel like I’ve grown (pun maybe intended) as a plant person over the years, because I now happen to have two house plants and two outside plants that are all alive, some after several years. There have been some rough moments, but with help from two or three “plant doctors” in my life, I’ve managed to keep them alive for an impressive amount of time compared to my history.
One thing I’ve learned when it comes to plants: if all else fails, cut off all the brown parts, even if it means leaving only nubs sticking out of the soil, give it water and sun, and wait for it to use its own ability to renew itself.
My most recent addition to my tiny plant family is a small mint plant I’ve been keeping, only partly successfully, by my kitchen sink.
At first I had to experiment with the container to keep it in, and how much water to give it. Too many brown leaves told me I wasn’t getting it right at first. But I cut off the brown parts, encouraged that they would soon be replaced by the miniscule, infant leaves I could see beginning to sprout. Plant procreation right under my eyes. Amazing.
Another amazing thing about this plant is that I can purposely cut off leaves, literally for my consumption, and feel confident that they will soon be replaced by new growth.
The plants in my life have proved to be, not only resilient but forgiving, giving me a new chance again and again, and in the case of this small, fragrant adornment, almost as many mint-sprigged cups of tea and recipes as I like.
I can take, and it continues to generously give of itself, without ceasing to exist. I give back by watering it, admiring it, and celebrating its generous nature with these words.
I think we can also be like that to a degree. Though we can’t cut off parts of ourselves and regrow them (except hair), we can come back from things we thought we might not survive, and continue to grow and thrive. We can also give to others, within limits, without depleting ourselves. In fact we do better when we give, allowing for new growth, sprouting leaves of our own kind.
3. A clean, blank calendar.
Last week I made the observation that this week would bring a new week, a new month, and a new year, all at once. That’s a lot of beginnings.
Though I don’t make new year’s resolutions, I usually can’t resist the pull and possibility of a whole new year stretching out as a blank slate on which to write goals I’d like to accomplish in this seemingly vast stretch of time.
I know the time will go by faster than could seem possible, and there are limits to what I can accomplish, but it is both motivating and inspiring to write down goals, and set out the steps to achieve them.
But this year I find that it is not only the clean canvas of a new year that inspires me, but an actual uncluttered calendar as well. I use my calendar to write down, not just appointments, but goals, to-do lists, business records, small steps achieved, personal reminders, and so on. So by the end of the year I have a convenient record, but also my usual inky mess.
I haven’t figured out how not to do this, but a completely clean calendar to start with rested my eye and my mind, and made me want to fill it carefully and mindfully, not to mention a little more neatly if possible.
But this pure, free space didn’t last long. Before even the first day of January I have (neatly) made notes on squares representing two days of the first month. But I will try to use the calendar, and the time it represents, joyfully, purposefully, efficiently, and well.
Next time I will try out yet another subject, a surprise, to honor the suggestion of a valued reader.