I was sent this plant in 1995 by my former employers when they learned that my brother David had been murdered. Former, as I had recently quit this job I passionately hated due to A) an inability to conform to an office mindset, B) pressure to play along with the Boys Club/Casting Couch mentality of a potential career in advertising, and C) I felt my soul slipping away from me. If I hadn’t quit – with the intention of pursuing my dreams to act – I’m certain they would have fired me.
This is the only plant I have ever had that has lasted more than 6 months under my care. It’s not so much that it’s received any extra attention, as I have a notoriously black thumb and any concerted effort on my part would likely have disastrous results (I drowned a cactus once) but I do think we are somehow connected. It has gone through stages of almost bushy growth, teeming over the sides of a too-small pot (you want me to do what?) to a single, spindly branch bare of leaves.
About two years ago, I thought it had finally died, and I burst into tears. I left it on my porch, unable to toss it in the trash, and was granted a reprieve when my Mom visited a few weeks later, working her garden magic on the comatose branches.
I don’t even know what kind of plant it is. It doesn’t flower, which is good for my allergies, and sometimes its leaves are corrugated with a simple yet exquisite pattern, a burst of random, improvised beauty. It rests on my patio outside my office where I can see it clearly from my desk, and something about its existence, however full or threadbare, is often just enough of what I need to keep going.
Illegitimi non carborundum!