I have a history of killing houseplants.
It's not that I set out to do so. I sincerely want to be surrounded by
leafy, blossoming things, as I was growing up in my parents' house. I am an inconsistent plant parent. I
alternate between overwatering and underwatering. I have better luck in
the garden. Under the sun and sky, my efforts matter less.
Last
summer we inherited a banana tree plant from one of Don's co-workers.
We left it on our patio, which gets the hot morning sun, and promptly
forgot to water it or to pay any attention to it at all. Eventually Don
rescued it by putting it in a larger pot and setting it on the hearth
inside. It began to thrive, growing taller and sprouting a new stalk
within the first few weeks. At Christmas time, I decorated it with sock
monkey ornaments.
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| Who doesn't love a sock monkey in a purple tutu or a Santa costume? |
Earlier
this summer I noticed the central stalk's leaves were getting brown. I
figured I was performing my usual involuntary plantslaughter and tried
to ignore it.
Last
week I took a good long look at that plant and decided to do something
on its behalf. With kitchen shears I cut away a few dead leaves. It
still looked like a dead plant, but with a few less dead leaves. It
needed stronger medicine, so I took a sharp knife to the central stalk
and cut it almost to the top of the potting soil.
Remember the new stalk that sprouted after it was transplanted and brought inside?
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| There was already a whole new healthy plant growing alongside the dying part. |
| The plant was now two healthy, thriving, green-as-could-be stalks that were apparently waiting to be recognized as the replacement plant. So captured was I by the plant's withering leaves, and my part in this failure, I was not captivated by the fresh growth. An unfortunate part of my temperament gets so caught up in grieving what's lost, I forget to be alert to new growth. |
 | |||
| More new growth |
