Please Water the Damn Plant
I was never a big plant person. Then my husband brought home a Monstera, and somewhere between checking its soil and chasing sunlight for it, I realized the plant was training me more than I was taking care of it.
I simply had the emotional relationship with plants that I have with decorative cushions in hotel lobbies. Nice. Green. Good for the ambience. Then one day, my husband brought home a Monstera, only to have the energy of ambience.
He loves having little bits of green around indoor spaces, and I must admit, plants do something to a room. Suddenly, the house looks calmer, more intentional, more Pinterest-worthy, even when there is a three-year-old somewhere throwing a sock.
The Monstera found its place in our home.
And I completely ignored it.
For quite some time, this plant existed in the same category as the Wi-Fi router. I knew it was there. I appreciated that it was functioning. I had absolutely no interest in understanding its needs.
Then, somehow, something changed.
I started watering it. Then I started checking the soil. Then moving it toward the sunlight. Then checking the leaves. Is this one turning yellow?
Too much water?
Too little water?
Too much sun?
Not enough sun?
Suddenly, I was emotionally involved in the well-being of a leaf.
And now my three-year-old has joined me too. He notices the plant, wants to help with the water, looks at the leaves, and somehow this Monstera has quietly become another little living member of our household.
We become consistent with things when we start caring about them.
Not when we create another perfect routine.
Not when we buy a beautiful planner.
Not when Instagram tells us that successful women wake up at 5 a.m., drink chlorophyll water and have already journaled before the rest of us have opened our eyes.
When we genuinely care, the behavior starts changing on its own.
And strangely, while learning to take care of this plant, I started noticing how I take care of myself.
A plant needs water.
Oh.
Apparently, so do I.
A plant cannot survive beautifully in a dark corner forever.
Apparently, neither can I.
Apparently, so do I.
A plant cannot survive beautifully in a dark corner forever.
Apparently, neither can I.
It needs sunlight. Space. Water. Attention. Sometimes a little pruning. Sometimes absolutely nothing except being left alone to do its thing.
That last one particularly spoke to me.
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Slowly, I started paying attention to my own hydration. My skin. My clothes. My books. My indoor space. The things I own. The things I use every day.
Not obsessing over them.
Caring for them.
And I think there is an important difference.
Obsession says, This has to be perfect.
Care says, Let me notice what this needs.
That feels much softer.
I don’t need perfect skin. I can take care of my skin.
I don’t need the perfect wardrobe. I can take care of the clothes I already own.
I don’t need an Instagram-perfect house. I can make my little corner peaceful.
I don’t need to completely reinvent myself every Monday morning.
I can drink some water.
Stand in the sun.
Breathe.
Slow down.
Take care of what is already here.
There is something almost embarrassingly obvious about the wisdom of plants. They don’t rush because it is September and somehow the year is almost over. They don’t compare themselves with the Monstera next door. They don’t order a new personality from Amazon at 11:47 p.m.
They just respond to care.
Water.
Light.
Space.
Time.
And perhaps we are not that different.
These days, when I water our Monstera, I don’t feel like I have suddenly transformed into a plant lady. I am still very much capable of forgetting that plants exist.
But I have started understanding something I didn’t before.
Taking care of something changes your relationship with it.
Maybe that is true for plants.
Maybe it is true for our homes, our bodies, our books, our relationships and our lives.
You don’t necessarily have to fall madly in love with your life first and then start taking care of it.
Sometimes you start taking care of it and the love quietly grows from there.
Much like a Monstera.
Although, unlike me, the Monstera has never needed three reminders to drink water.
