On the heels of feelings of restless, I've been happy in my home. And maybe my favorite part as of late is the bits of green that bring the outdoors in while it's colder and darker outside my doors. The bring me a silly joy. I am maybe a little too pleased with the avocado plant we sprouted from a pit, or the begonia I propagated from my mother's plant, which was propagated from my grandmother's, and my great-grandmother's before her.
The ficus behind the chair is our "marriage tree," given to us by friends at our wedding reception. Somehow no matter how that tree grows or what happens to it, it always seems like a metaphor.
This bulb on my table makes me anxious for spring and dirt under my nails, excited to get my shady little patch of yard to bloom as best I can. I have never been much for yard work, but I've gotten better at house cleaning, so maybe there's hope for me yet.
I love plants sitting on windowsills and trailing down bookcases. And Arlo might like them even more than me- they serve as toys and meals if I'm not careful. He too likes dirt under his nails, but he also likes it in his mouth and covering his sweet chin.
I mostly think I like them because it's so wonderful to nurture something that, unlike my children, who I would like to freeze in-time at exactly the size they are this moment, I want to see grown and grow and grow. I would like these stalks and leaves to reach my ceilings, but for my children to remain just as they are.