Moving On & Forward

on survival mode via lessons learned from self-care & plant parenting

Hello Gentlepeople,

I recently shared a “prayer request” on Instagram, which is more of a confession of where I am in life right now—still job hunting and working on school stuff while living with the reality of post-hospitalization for my mental health. I am thankful to those who have reached out to ask me how they can help. Here are a few ways:

1. Pay me for my work by becoming a paid subscriber for this newsletter.

2. Purchase something from the AGL merch store.

3. Book me for any of my offerings, which include spiritual direction, coaching, or freelance writing, here.

some cuttings from a "string of pearls" succulent on the left grew into the hanging pot on the right, with beads descending out of frame

Self-Care

I started my little houseplant collection after college, taking them with me wherever I moved. At first, I knew so little: put them in the light and water. I watched many poor plant babies died under my care, which lead me to learn more through Youtube and Instagram. My collection grew around 2020/2021, as I cared for roughly 30 plants in my room with a huge south-facing window—IYKYK.

In time, I began to craft metaphors of self-care from my experience of tending to these plants. Metaphors are easy to come back to and remember as the rhythms of care these plants demand meet me in every season. In the hard spring and summer of 2020, I can thank these plants for cleansing the air around my room, where depressive and angry thoughts raged. I was free to get in touch with nature though I feared the world outside and around me.

Self-Care 
(June 2020)

When I see my plants drooping over
When I touch the soil and see it is dry 
When I find the leaves are turning brown 
I investigate
I question 
I wonder why

Each of them demands a different kind of care
Different kinds of light
Different frequencies of watering
Different temperatures for comfort
Different levels of space for growth
Each demands that I long to know 

When all else fails, I check the roots
They will tell me when they have outgrown their dwelling space
They will tell me when they can no longer handle being confined
They will tell me that they’ve circled their pots for too long 
They will tell me they are cramped and need room to grow—

In learning to love them 
I find myself noticing and in noticing 
I notice myself wilting away,  spirit is dry
I notice when my hope darkens—
I notice, investigate, question and wonder.

Knowing I must respond with care.

I need light. 
I need water.
I need warmth.
I need room to grow.

I need to be rooted in the truth of being 
Fully known and deeply loved. 

I need to recognize when systems and structures no longer serve 
And actually hurt me
I need to stop running in circles around the same confinement—

Yes, if even plants can demand relief
So can I. 
 

Moving…On & Forward

As I revisit this poem now, I cling to the understanding nurtured here and the image that inspired a turn to liberation: the overgrowth of roots spiraling around a pot. The need for replanting, room to grow, and nutrients to find as new soil meets old.

Many houseplants come with flowers when purchased from a store, such as the Peace Lily. Often, when those flowers die, it is hard for them to re-emerge. It can take patience and care for the plant to trust that it is in a place where it can bloom again. It takes learning what the plant needs and providing it consistently. Slight changes can be bared easier for some than others—just try and change the lighting conditions for a fiddle leaf fig.

It’s always a major shock to the plan when it is moved from one pot to another. The process demands gentleness. The roots, set in their patterns of spiral growth needed to be teased out gently to encourage a new direction of growth.

When I was a kid, I thought I would love to travel— see the world and inhabit different places. This is still true in some ways, but I did not anticipate how much I would love to feel “at home.” In the last decade, I have had to create that feeling for myself regardless of where I landed.

In this season of moving on and moving forward, my body remembers trauma from spaces where I was not allowed to grow. Where my body, mind, and spirit could only spiral in confinement. I remember the dehydration of spaces where my spirit met the dry air of dull imaginations. I remember the people who took the fruits and seeds I could make without any care for how they emerged and if more would return. Unmetaphorically, I speak of spiritual and racial harm done in places and communities I thought I was meant to be rooted.

Luckily I have feet instead of roots, made to move on and forward with new lessons of care grounding me as I make my home somewhere else. I am entering a new season, unsure what the future holds, but holding warmly the truth that I know what I need to feel at home.

I am holding gratitude for this home—an intentional community for seminary students—that has been my holding place for two years. In this place, with few windows facing good light, many plants died. I am reminded here of those who would say, “Well if you can’t hack it, leave.” I eventually got a few plant lightbulbs to help the rest survive. I am reminded of the ways our society can adjust conditions to care for those who cannot flourish under the default conditions of our institutions and communities.

When you move a lot, you learn to adapt to change. I have been amenable, like a baby rubber plant or snake plant, I can survive harsh conditions. But one of the things you learn as you care for even the easiest of plants is that while some can survive in low light conditions, they thrive in light. They may do well in a dark corner, looking beautiful for your living area. But when they are moved to a place where they can touch the sun as close—as they can tolerate—you will see their best emerge. Some may even flower for you.

Here I am reminded again, survival mode is not our inheritance. Even the plants know it.

taken by Eli DeFaria

Landing Track

As you read the poem “Self-Care,” what metaphors stand out for you? Which ones resonate with what you need in your life right now?