6.1.18 Dining table
In a different life, I would fill my house with plants. In this life, however, my front windows face east, my back windows west, and so the sun is brief in its visitation and my dream of a home like a Georgian orangery remains a wistful imagining on dark days.
I enjoy every turning shadow all the more for it though and have appropriated each lighter corner with something green and hopeful, things that don't seem to mind a more subdued life. Calathea, tradescantia, Boston fern, aloe, crassula ovata, fenestraria, wild orchid, spider plant. Some carry secret pet names, too: Daphne, Mr Sparks, Great Aunt Agatha, Pip. The spider plant I named Jesus as it reappeared from almost bare earth at Easter time. The crassula Jade plant I managed to propagate from a single leaf I found on the floor of the garden centre and hid furtively in my pocket. The fenestraria carries the label 'baby toes' and looks like them, pushing up a new toe only every year or so and which you can't help but pinch between your fingers.
I love them all.
Today I wiped each leaf with a tenderness I once used to wipe elderly hands after dinner. Today I placed a firm finger to their drying feet, checking pulses, checking life. And today I filled a spray bottle to the brim and gleefully showered each plant till the water ran down their sides and pearled in the low light, spattering the windows and walls and nearby upholstery.
Today I was carer, medic, and wicked passing storm, all three.
Today I was a rain cloud, happy and loving and willingly all poured out.