You may remember that roughly a million years ago, I wrote an essay about my chives plant, in which I noted that I'd had my chives plant for fifteen years, which at that point, was almost half my life. The chives did finally die from bugs, alas, but I went back to their parent plant and got another chunk, so at least my current chives are genetically related to the old ones.
For a long time, though, I kept plants around mostly for aesthetic reasons. It didn't much matter if they died because I could always go out and get more. I could grow new ones. After all, even plants in the wild die all the time.
But lately, my perspective has changed. Weirdly enough, it was because I had to repot my aloe plant. It had been in a plastic pot, but it had gotten so big and heavy, that the pot had the tendency to try to capsize, and I had to prop it up with a rock. So I bought a heavier clay pot, and when I pulled out the roots, I discovered that the aloe had actually become rootbound. And it occurred to me, that although I'd killed many other plants in my life, clearly I was doing something right with this aloe.
And then I thought to myself, maybe we're friends. Not just general friends, like I am with all the trees, but real friends. Close friends. And then I looked around at all my other plants, and realized all of them were happy. Not just alive, or hanging on by a thread, but like they weren't just an aesthetic anymore. They were happy to be here, and I was happy to have them.
So I decided they all deserved names. It took me several days, but please let me introduce to you my plants:
From left to right:
Spiderplant, Cornel; ponytail palm, Eleanor; alacasia, Weil; begonia, Jean-Paul; chives, Jeanu; bonsai, Søren; aloe, Simone; lamb's ear, Albert; inch plant, Tahani; begonia in a jar, Michael; philodendron, Chidi.
The only plant I have yet to name is my jasmine plant, who currently is living her best life in full bloom outdoors.
I think sometimes I forget or am unable to see the value in the small things. It can be easy to overlook how incremental actions add up over time. How brushing my teeth everyday means I still have teeth, and will for the duration of my life. How playing piano for only a few minutes here and there has grown my skill immeasurably. How each word I write plays a role in improving my skill as a writer. How putting a single dish in the dishwasher makes my house just a little bit cleaner.
Each action on its own feels like it means nothing. It is a single choice, a forgettable action, something that just happens, sometimes with intention and sometimes without. But when viewed over time, these little actions add up, and together become a much larger thing. A clean house, a new skill, a relationship.
Taking time to water my plants every few days means they survive and grow and thrive. It's a habit. A thing I do because I'm supposed to, because I chose to have plants. But then suddenly, I realize they've been my friends for years. Years which, if those plants were to die, would take that same number of years to replace.
Incremental growth is still growth. Incremental change is still change. Even if it's hard to see while it's still happening.