I wonder pretty often about this place I live in. How I can improve it, how I can honor it, imbue it with my spirit while I’m sharing space temporarily. . .
I’ve got a lot of houseplants, dude. Each time a mood strikes me, I find myself holding a potted plant. There is a lot of greenery here, almost all centered around the kitchen, so I can remember to water what needs watering. Out of sight out of mind is real with me.
So here we are. In the season of plastic on all the windows, the plants must be moved, the tables turned, the plants which have summer homes returned to the nook off the kitchen. Things get crowded. I forget who needs less light and who is downright scared of direct light.
Houseplants. Out of place, like an animal raised in captivity, not knowing its roots, not unhappy maybe, but definitely not in its natural environment.
Sometimes I feel like that. Like I belong somewhere else, a rebel in a commune, wearing a bra while everyone else bakes cookies naked. (i would never wear a bra if i didn’t have to, ever.)
Like I belong hanging from a tree in some rain forest, living happily on air.
Its not all the time, this feeling, but it creeps around often enough that I can give it a friendly squeeze.
Is this what will happen to me when the last of the kids is gone? Will I be wearing caftans and cooking curries and being Mrs. Roper?
(bonus points if you understand that reference.)
I’m curious about it, really, because of that creep familiarity. I love LOVE that I still am wondering what I will be when I grow up, at 47.
I wonder if I am the only one.
See you soon, wonderkinds. This was day 10.
Of course your area not alone in this! I’m about to turn fifty and still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. The good news is that, at this age, at least I know what I DON’T want to be. Adulting kind of sux!
A la Michael Pollen, some plants have cleverly gotten us to take care of them, propagate them and spread them around the world by being appealing to our indoor selves. Clever.