Do Plants Go to Plant Heaven?
““Love Jo all your days, if you choose, but don’t let it spoil you, for it’s wicked to throw away so many good gifts because you can’t have the one you want.””
As I water my traumatized Spathiphyllum every morning, I always think about the dozens of plants I have let perish on my watch over the course of the past years. It oddly reminds me of all those stories of men fantasizing about their “true loves” while having intercourse with a casual partner (I’ll try to explain how the two may be related slightly further below).
And I can’t help but wonder each time, “Do plants go to plant heaven?”
For most of my life, I’ve happily adopted all kinds of beautiful plants to surround myself with. There would be days when I’d gladly seize the day and water each and every one of them early in the morning to the sound of particularly jolly music. But then there would be days when I’d simply hate the idea of crawling out of bed or take off for a week-long music festival and subsequently witness my balcony gardens wither away over and over again. It would all be too symbolic of all the dates with some of the nicest people I have come to know and never calling or picking up the phone afterwards; rejecting them cold-heartedly over a handsome, emotionally unavailable red-blooded man without ever thinking twice. There would always be a “perfectly valid” excuse: “He’s only 5’9” and I would want my kids to be taller!” or “How can he not love How I Met Your Mother?” And how I would start learning a new exotic language, only to abandon it half-way for other, more important distractions at a later stage. Wanting what I didn’t have and then abandoning it half-way was always my specialty.
What’s really behind all that? From my observation, it is mostly our gluttonous ego, facing and beating the crap out of which at some point is probably the only way to come back to senses. On another hand, it’s a cliché form of self-sabotage and limited response to extreme fear, a defense mechanism against uncertainty and possibility of pain we tend to be so reluctant towards (for understandable reasons). Some even compensate for this by getting addicted to extreme forms of BDSM or simply stick with disposable items, which they often believe to include humans as well. Or some of us get green plastic watering cans for fake Chinese rubber plants in the fake plastic earth that we buy from rubber men in a town full of rubber plans to get rid of itself. And we live with broken men, cracked polystyrene men, who just crumble and burn — all because they once did surgery for girls in the eighties. And they look like the real thing. And they taste like the real thing — our fake plastic loves. And we do all that to avoid thinking, suffering and really just being alone most of the time. We prefer to surround ourselves with beautiful things that constantly let us feel so very wonderful about ourselves, and replace these trophies with other ones, instead of contemplating the reasons why we lost or let go of those we once had. Ironically, we never actually question our commitment to soul-devouring full-time jobs at appealing corporations, only to be able to pay hundreds and thousands for disposable items, bags, blouses and bracelets to look appealing during meetings or nights out on a town.
In my favorite words of Woody Allen, “to love is to suffer. To avoid suffering one must not love. But then one suffers from not loving. Therefore, to love is to suffer; not to love is to suffer; to suffer is to suffer. To be happy is to love. To be happy, then, is to suffer, but suffering makes one unhappy. Therefore, to be happy one must love or love to suffer or suffer from too much happiness.”
Love is commitment. It is a tacit agreement to ups and downs, and a fickle yet encouraging promise to stick around and work through the inevitable troubles of the everyday. It is a commitment to potential grief over being left alone or not ever getting to see the fruits of your inexhaustible labor. It is accepting the 50% probability of being left at the altar or being physically attracted to someone other than your spouse at some point (as I watch more and more people stay as close friends after divorce, that, too, seems to be an acceptable outcome that may be greeted with absolute understanding). It is fascination and dedication — acceptance of it never ending in marriage or common offspring, living under the same roof or having a favorite TV show to watch over and over again together. It is complete madness and utter absence of conditionality. It’s a pledge, but never — a guarantee.
I have learned that through Lola, my seven-year-old Cocker Spaniel, who I’ve been an undoubtedly imperfect mother and friend to for the entire time spent apart or together over the course of all these years. Watching her suffer through acute gastritis due to all the pizza slices and chunks of parmesan I so believed to be a great snacking option as I’d enjoy my junk food at the kitchen table, I’ve looked at love from both sides now — from give and take, and still somehow, it’s life’s illusions I recall.
For now, I continue to be unrequitedly in love with the same man I’ve loved for the past nine years and try to be a good sister and a great sister-in-law, a good daughter (well, I seem to be failing at getting that one right anyway) and a loving doggie mother. I try to tend to a total of three plants in my apartment, one of which happens to be a Sweetheart Hoya — also known as an extremely low-maintenance Valentine plant that seems to be surviving just fine next to my kitchen sink.
While I dream of a huge house with at least three pups and possibly a kitten (still not sure how they’re going to get along, but I’m certain there must be a way, if I just try hard enough), I simply try to carry pet treats in my backpack each time I leave the house (and, of course, forget that quite often as well) and enjoy the infinitely gratifying tail wiggling of satisfied stray dogs on the way without any further commitment.
Oh, and I will definitely have to try to love my body more, which I have been failing to treat with kindness for the past few years as a form of powerful self-sabotage. At least, the latter (a dozen extra pounds) seems to have an obvious silver lining, now that not a single red-blooded male hits on me at bars or takes interest in my alluring personality in the most superficial way.
And I will continue to look back at the photo of my Southern Maidenhair Fern, which I only recently learned is rich with formidable medicinal properties, and a mini poster of a smiley furry monster with an epigram — “Wherever you go, go with your heart” — a powerful reminder of my occasional stupor and aspiration for a more mindful future.
My Spathiphyllum, the Peace Lily, also appears to be adjusting to my lifestyle, as she grew the first single flower since I brought her home a while back. I don’t blame her — it must have been tough to watch me for the past four years and probably delightful to see me come back to my senses eventually.
So, be alone — very, very alone, or try sticking around for a while. Get to know yourself through experiences of both complete solitude and occasionally annoying presence of another. Before you decide to procreate — well, understandably so — adopt a stray dog and learn what it’s like to be a lazy parent that may fail to understand their child’s feelings and reason for defiance. After all, that only requires commitment of up to approximately 16 years, but certainly promises to allow you to experience the identical intensity of utter grief. Or, if you realize you are not ready to put yourself through that either, get a plant. However, I can’t really promise that the lessons it may teach you are more likely to be less weighty, or that having it wither is going to be any less poignant.
Plants may actually go to heaven, or reincarnate into tiny soap bubbles, coming out of an extra-large dish washing liquid container as you pour some into a smaller one for the morning dish-washing session, and unexpectedly make you smile.
For starters, try to catch yourself doing that.
This time, I may even have a [somewhat gloomy] soundtrack for the rest of your day.
