She lives in my plants

For a long time, I struggled taking care of plants. One summer my husband had to go out of town for a whole week and we had young kids at the time. I called my Aunt and asked her to come help me. While my kids were in school, my aunt and I planted and repotted flowers. She taught me so much about plants and flowers that week she was there.

It wasn’t until I got deep into my own healing journey that something shifted.

I all of a sudden needed more plants. I needed them to be with me, I needed them to look at, tend to and watch grow.

The way a new leaf unfurled overnight. The way they leaned toward the light. The way they responded when I actually paid attention. Somewhere in that noticing, I fell in love with them.

Several years ago, I was at Lowe’s and spotted a large terra-cotta planter on clearance.It was after the season. It was beautiful about three feet tall, heavy, wide, and filled with seven different plants I couldn’t name but already adored. I sent my aunt a picture and called her.

The planter…..

Calling my aunt is just what I did when I had a question about plants or just life.

I called her. She knew everything. She immediately started naming them one by one. Then she told me exactly how to care for them and how some of them needed repotting, what light they needed, how much water and when to rotate them.

When we got home, my husband tried to carry it to the porch.He was giving it everything he had and then it happened, he dropped it.

That gorgeous planter hit the ground and shattered into pieces that could never be put back together. I stood there for a moment. Called my aunt again…then I went back to Lowe’s, bought individual pots, and came home to start over.

Now all broken.

Sometimes the thing breaks.And sometimes that becomes the beginning of something better.

I repotted every single plant. Most of them went into the room I had created for my healing journey, the space I made intentionally for rest, reflection, and finding my way back to myself.

Every day, I tended them. Watering them. Checking their leaves.

Rotating them toward the light. Sending pictures to my aunt and reporting back on how they were doing. She would answer with little pieces of wisdom. That one needs more humidity. That one is about to bloom. Give that one more space. Watch that one closely.

It became a ritual. A quiet daily act of caring for something living.

Two months later…my aunt passed away.

Just like that, those plants became something different.

Something more.

They became a place where she still lives.

Every leaf she named.

Every tip she gave me.

Every picture I sent that she answered with love, knowledge, and her voice.

It is all still there. In the roots. In the soil. In the way I know how to care for them now.

She taught me. And I carry that with me every time I water them, every time I notice new growth, every time I turn one gently toward the light the way she taught me to.

Grief is strange that way. It finds places to live that you never expected.

Recently, I got kittens and of course my kittens discovered my plants.

One of my beautiful plants kept getting jumped on. Leaves breaking. Soil disturbed. I watched it start to struggle. So I moved her. I found her a safer place.

And I started talking to her the way I learned to talk to plants, the way my aunt did, the way that feels a little silly until you see what happens. I told her she was safe now. That I was going to take better care of her. That she could grow. In a short amount of time, she produced five new leaves.

Five.

I stood there looking at her, because I understood exactly what had happened.

When something finally feels safe, it grows.

Here is what my aunt taught me.

What my healing journey taught me.

What my plants teach me every single day.

We are not so different from them. We need someone to plant a seed in us. Someone who sees potential and places us where we can take root. We need to be tended.

Not once. Not occasionally. Consistently.

Someone checking on us. Giving us what we need. Turning us toward the light when we forget where it is. We need to be spoken to kindly. Told we are beautiful. Told we have grown. Told we are safe to keep going.

And sometimes we need to be moved out of the environment that keeps breaking our leaves and placed somewhere we can finally breathe.

Self-care is not always a spa day. Sometimes it is gardening. Sometimes it is daily. Sometimes it is showing up for something living and saying: I see you. You matter. Let’s tend to this.

I have a room full of plants now. Some of them I can name because she taught me. Some of them I’ve learned on my own since she’s been gone. Every morning when I check on them, I think of her. I do the things she taught me. I notice the new growth. I turn them toward the light.

She lives in my plants.

And in the tending of them, I am still learning from her.

The plant that the cats tried to take out. That now has new leaves.