Christmas cactus dies slowly, and I’ve spent the last several weeks apologizing to my overwatered mother plants and tucking shed fronds into dirt, hoping for the best. I have several little “nurseries” around the house in bright, indirect light. The graveyard of large, emptied cache pots, slowly growing, stares at me accusingly. Mea culpa.
This morning I checked on this little bowl. Three of the starts are not going to make it, but the fourth one has taken root. I almost cheered.
And I couldn’t help thinking that caring for plants – like caring for pets and raising a family – is a project of determined hope. When it looks like everything has gone wrong, we don’t give up: we start again. Underneath the destruction is something that wants to live.
We recognize that desire in ourselves, too. Something inside wants to grow roots and leaves, to absorb the light around us, and ultimately, to bloom. To make friends. To succeed at school or work or hobby. To build healthy relationships. To learn to live with loss. To recover. To take a break when we need to. To stop being afraid. To forgive and to accept forgiveness. To try something new.
So we figure out how to remove the bits that aren’t growing any more. We learn how to encourage new roots. We find the right combination of food and soil.
And from time to time, we decide to start over. A choice. A belief that life will not be denied, and our job is to support it.
My little bowl nursery doesn’t look like much now, but a year from now, I’ll be wondering if it’s time to repot.
(And for those who will hasten to tell me that this is not Christmas cactus but actually Thanksgiving cactus, hush. That’s not the point.)