On writing, plants, and contemplation

I awakened early this morning, bitten by the writing bug.  Although I had taken a bit of time away from writing to learn to use my new web development tool I was still in the groove.  As I wrote I was transported back to the time about which I was writing.  I was there.  I wielded words like a sword.  I caressed them like a lover.  I produced memories, fine and clear.

After a long walk I tended to my plants.  The first thing I did was transplant some basil.  I had it in a raised bed with oregano and thyme, but the basil was being overtaken by the other herbs.  I pulled the pansies out of a large clay planter and prepared the soil to receive the basil.  As I worked I remembered that this planter was the one in which I had planted winter blooming flowers for my mother two and a half years ago.  It was Christmas and she was dying.  She had been on hospice for four months.  She was able to stay at home until her death the following May and I wanted her to have something pretty outside the windows.

In a contemplative mood, I tended my other plants, the Boston Ferns, the Rabbit’sFoot Ferns, the banana tree and the philodendrons.  In the house I took my time.  Many of the begonia’s leaves were dead around the edges.  This particular begonia is fussy.  I began to snap off the leaves that were dying.  There were a lot of them.  Rather than feeling dismayed I remembered how my father had taught me not to be afraid if something wasn’t going well with a plant.  He taught me to be fearless.  He taught me that the old must go to make way for the new.  When I finished the begonia was significantly smaller but it looked much healthier.  My smallest orchid is blooming.  This brave little guy triumphantly produces huge yellow flowers.

I took my time with the aloes.  I gave up on the big aloe last fall.  It had gotten top heavy and all of my transplant efforts failed.  I just propped it up against one of the raised beds and allowed it to put up baby aloes around itself.  I carefully removed the babies and let the big plant go.  Let go of the old.  Nurture the new.  Some day these little guys will be the aloe that ate the house.