Plant Parenthood

We didn’t have houseplants growing up. My mother’s cigarette smoke would have killed them. And though once or twice over the years I was gifted a plant, I just had no interest. I’d immediately give it away or toss it out.

Then one day as I was assessing my newest apartment in Chicago, I realized that I needed at least one plant to add some life to the space. So I walked over to Home Depot and bought, predictably enough, a fiddle-leaf fig.

From that day on, I was addicted. As with so many things in my life, it started with color. I became obsessed with the way that placing a fuzzy apple-green plant next to a glossy dark pine-colored one provided the kind of contrast and textual interest that I could stare at endlessly, almost in a state of trance (this was yet another sign of my undiagnosed autism: visual stimming). Plants became a new and utterly unexpected way to be creative, because for me it is 90% about the aesthetics—about curating a carefully chosen selection. The mix of greens and the variety of textures. The shaping and pruning and training. The use of different height levels to best show them off. And finally, the creative problem solving of picking out shelves, then grow lights, then modifying the shelves, then upgrading the lights, then upgrading how the lights are attached, then conquering the humidity issues, and so on. Oh, and the pots. Very, very important. Must be neutral grey or grey-adjacent, so as to never upstage the plant. The play of dull grey against green captivates me.

I tinker with my plants for hours on some days. Others, I just sit and commune with them. They calm me. They soothe me. They absolutely delight me.