A few years ago a friend of mine gifted me a sweet little green houseplant that she had lovingly propagated from the growth of her own plant. I loved it, but I was also terrified and felt a foreboding sense of shame for the inevitable death I would bring to this little beauty. Maybe that’s why I’ve always loved fresh-cut flower arrangements. Those are expected to die. Plants need to be tended to, cared for, maintained. The list of needs for each plant can be extensive and very different based on the plant.

Months passed, and that sweet little plant (that I later learned is a pothos, or Devil’s Ivy) was not only still alive, but thriving. It had grown exponentially and each new leaf that opened up brought me so much excitement and surprise. It wasn’t long before she outgrew her original pot and needed repotting into a larger pot. I nervously navigated that process, halfway expecting her not to survive the transplant. Once I knew that she was comfortable and doing well in her new pot, I began to entertain the idea of adding a second plant to my collection.

Well. That was about a year ago, and I’m now up to 14 various potted plants. I don’t know if it’s an age thing or the fact that I’m at a place in my life where I’m willing to dedicate the time and attention to properly caring for them, but I suppose I’ve officially become a plant mom.

Yesterday, I spent a couple of hours tending to my jungle. I had a few new plants that needed to be transplanted from their nursery pots into fresh soil, and a few propagated babies that have been growing in water and were ready to be planted in soil. Some needed fertilizing, and all needed their leaves cleaned. This is a chore that brings me joy. Maybe, on a deeper level, this new hobby is symbolic of the healing work and growth I’ve been working toward for myself.

Something about the cool, quiet morning hours spent tending to these beauties infuses the rest of my day with a sense of peace and ease that I’ve been chasing lately.