A Winter Test

My "green thumb" was tested last week during the New England ice storm. I am primarily an outdoor gardener, but I have a few prized houseplants that I have nursed to healthy heights. In the past, I have purchased houseplants to get me through the winter - to add a little greenery to the white and gray that surrounds us in New Hampshire this time of year. Every year, after a month or so of care, I slowly forget my houseplants. I stop watering them. I stop feeding them. I stop talking to them, stroking their leaves, and moving them around the house to cheer them up. But one plant in particular has not cared how I treat it. My peace lily is about four feet across. It was given to me by my friend Sara when I moved to this house four years ago. It is a symbol of our friendship. It is also a symbol of nature's strength because no matter how it is treated it thrives, giving up beautiful white flowers in my most tiresome winter moments.

Last year, I made a concerted effort to change my houseplant habits. After reading a book called "Growing Me" by Judith Handelsman, I had a new-found respect for my potted greenery. My houseplants have grown immensely in a year. Plants that languished without care for years, took on new life, blooming and slowly creeping out of pots. Last winter, my peace lily flowered multiple times instead of just once like it has in the past.

Last week, we lost power for four days. As my house grew colder than the outdoors, I watched my peace lily whither. While we stayed warm in a family member's apartment, I left my houseplants behind. On day three of the cold, we gathered the cats from the house and brought them with us. The houseplants were still left behind. On day four (before the power returned) my husband and I came to the house to check the temperatures of the pipes and otherwise make sure the house was safe. I walked past the peace lily. It looked awful and cried out to me "Goodbye, Melissa." I responded, "I'm sorry, I can't help you! Please try to hold on!" It was heartbreaking.

A very good friend of mine lost all of his tropical fish when we all lost power. Last year, we watched his tanks getting built into the basement walls when he had the room finished. With pride, my friend added coral and brightly colored beauties to the aquariums. Last week, we went to their house for dinner the night the power went out. They have a gas stove and we don't, so a simple meal was prepared in a darkened kitchen. Our kids played "watch the monster!" They ran into the basement with flashlights and asked me to join them, making shadows on the walls for entertainment. I turned my light to the fish. A clown fish bobbbed up and down. "Help me!" He cried. "I'm sorry, I cannot help you," I replied. He was gone the next morning.

When the power returned to my house. Most of my plants, with the exception of the ferns (surprisingly) appeared despondent. "I am so sorry!" I thought as I looked around the room while the heat slowly rose. I stuck a finger in the soil of each pot. They were still slightly damp, but very cold. I walked around the house a couple of times that day, feeling the life of my houseplants, but unsure which way they would turn. The next morning, the peace lily had two leaves perked up. "I'm going to give you just a little water buddy." Over the course of the day, slowly, each plant perked up. "I thought you were goners guys. Thanks for coming back!" I felt the life in the house again.

Living without power for a few days brings a heavy heart. Sure, we had a place to go, but we obviously missed the conveniences of modern living in our own space. But among the worst of all, trudging through our empty, lifeless house was terrible. There were no sounds , no refrigerator humming or heater pumping. Beyond that, there was also no pulse - by that I mean there was no feeling of this shell being our home. Large tree limbs had fallen around us. The rooms were dark and we were unsure when that would change. The houseplants stood as a symbol of mother nature's test and of a slowing pulse of life.

Over this past weekend we received about two feet of snow. While I was shoveling walkways this morning, I thought about the plants under the snow. I could feel their pulse. They are resting up for their spring duties. The snow serves as a blanket, unlike the deadly ice before it that despite its twinkling brilliance served only as a threat of nature's threatening powers. It is my goal this winter to keep feeling the pulse of nature. I want to feel that cosmic thread with my plants, wherever they are and in whatever stage of life they are maintaining this time of year. As I do every year, I will get through this test. Maybe if I am more clever, I can learn to enjoy this season.

Houseplants

Mom is an "indoor" plant person, mostly. When I was a kid, African violets were her main interest. The den connected to her bedroom was filled with shelving and grow lamps for her indulgence. She belonged to an African violet club and would regularly show her best blooming plants. She would coax and cajole as she spent much time watering and caring for them. I loved attending shows with her and seeing all the wonderful color -- plant blossoms intermixed with colorful ribbons. She encouraged us to grow our own violets and other houseplants on the windowsills of our bedrooms so we could learn sensitivity and the responsibility that comes with caring for another living thing. I had a great deal of fun growing and sharing in mom's passion. Today Mom fancies orchids, but she lives in Florida so they are as much outdoor plants as indoor ones. She now belongs to an orchid club and still brings home many colorful ribbons.

A few weeks ago I wrote about Judith Handelsman's book Growing Myself and I discussed my problem with forgetting to water or over-watering. This winter I have made a concerted effort to showcase my plants, talk to them,. move them around the house, and water them properly. Most of them have doubled in size. Their leaves are shiny. I must say that they really look happy. Treating indoor plants like beloved pets has brought me happiness as well.

One thing that I have always known. Houseplants can be fun to photograph. I regard every photograph I take of a plant as a portrait. Every plant has a best side and a unique personality that I hope to bring out in my pictures. (I provide a few samples here.) When you photograph a plant, look for unique angles, lines, and colors. I will usually take ten or more shots of an individual plant before I feel that I've captured its character. I spend time walking around the plant looking through the camera and shooting. When I get the "perfect" shot I usually know it. I get a satisfied feeling that is difficult to explain. I feel as if I have bonded with the plant or blossom and that we understand each other - like we have become good friends.

One of the gardeners that I visited this summer said that gardening to her is like becoming friends with nature. You learn to trust each other and acknowledge a mutual dependence. All plants offer us a piece of nature. It is something special when we can bring nature indoors. That is what a houseplant has to give.

A Personal Connection to Nature

I have been reading a lot of gardening books this winter. My favorite books are about people's personal experiences in the garden. I began reading these books as research for the book that I am writing. (This summer I interviewed 14 female gardeners about their gardening experiences and am writing about them. I will talk more about this in later postings.) I am finding myself deeply fascinated by these personal stories. One in particular touched me very deeply and made me reconsider my own connection to my landscape -- both indoors and out.

Judith Handelsman's Growing Myself addresses how all life is interconnected. The author talks about how she learned to better care for her plants by relating to them on a personal level. She discusses how talking to her plants helps them grow. She talks about how our positive and negative thoughts and actions affect our plants growth. She explains how it is important to respect nature for our own personal growth.

I started thinking about my houseplants. I have always considered my gardening talents to lie in my outdoor garden. I tend to kill houseplants. I forget to water them or leave them in obscure corners of the room in an attempt to "brighten" the corner. Before reading Handelsman I chose whatever houseplant struck my fancy, without consideration to how the plant would fit within my home and lifestyle. But now I understand my folly. I have begun strategically placing houseplants in spots that will make them happy -- near bright sunny windows, near each other, in places I frequent and won't forget to water them. I talk to my plants and stroke their leaves almost every day. I live with my plants and have welcomed them into my home as living entities rather than inanimate objects. My houseplants are thriving and I feel much calmer about getting through this usually dreadful winter season.

I realized that I have always felt a connection to outdoor plants. Trees especially have always been friends to me. I remember most of the trees in my life, but houseplants never impressed me in quite the same way. Handelsman talks about bringing outdoor trees in and using them to make nature a part of your life wherever you are. One story about a large sickly tree that she took on, lovingly placed in a corner of her apartment, nursed, and hung a hammock from was inspirational. For a plant is a plant whether indoors or out. I've been buying large pots to transplant my houseplants. I spread newspaper out on the floor and dip my hands into bags of potting soil. It's not quite like digging in the dirt outside, but it can warm my soul until the snows melt here in New Hampshire.