I own a ZZ plant I’ve named Frank. I purchased Frank because I read online that ZZ plants are hardy and can survive with limited light and water for a month at a time. I am not a bad plant parent, but I’m also not perfect at watering plants on a regular schedule. A plant like Frank seemed like a good fit.
And then we went away for a month over Christmas. I thought I set Frank up to survive; I had an automatic watering system set to go. I tested it, refilled his jug and hoped for the best. However, the best was not to be. Frank’s system failed. Not only was he severely dehydrated, but when I removed the ceramic pick used to send water to his roots, at least 10 large fungal gnats flew out. The now empty crater from the pick also caused all his stems to pull out of the soil and flop over. I shoved them back in, gave them a good watering, and prayed his advertised resilient nature would pull him through.
To be honest, I thought Frank was a goner. After a month, he was still standing, his stems flopping out of the pot as if looking for an escape. And then one did.
While watering him yesterday, a healthy stem dropped to the floor, its roots withered and the bottom half soggy and hollow. It was as if he rejected my efforts and wanted me to get the point in a major way. I’d destroyed my plant because I hadn’t double-checked the watering system, by not paying enough attention to it. Frank’s prognosis tenuous, I threw the dead stem away.
I’ve been having weird dreams lately. Random words stand out in stark relief: rebirth, sixty-five, eight eight, beige.
I know you’re thinking they’re nothing. Just artifacts from my dreams. But I don’t remember single words like this. Not hours after first hearing them. My dreams are vivid stories, full of adventure and strife. I once dreamed I was an assassin protecting a professor from the people who wanted to kill him. I was a badass who kicked ass. These are my normal dreams. They are not single words, said in a backdrop of black.
I dreamed last night of a pale skinny arm bursting through the seams of a white stretchy substance, like an egg or a barrier. When I woke this morning, the word drop of rebirth from a week ago made more sense. Could that waving grasping arm be a younger version of me breaking free and coming into the world fresh? Or am I stretching (pun intended) the meanings of my dreams? Is 8/8 signifying the astrological Lions gate portal or just a random Friday in August? Is my subconscious tricking me into finding meaning where there is none, sending me on a goose chase to make something irrelevant meaningful because I desperately want to pay attention?
Perhaps. But instead of ignoring it or dismissing it, I find myself wanting to remain open to all possibilities, fantastical, practical, or realistic. I want to avoid the cynical and embrace the magical, because that is where life lies.
In the unknown and the unknowable.
In the seeds of an idea or a dream.
In the indrawn breath before the first note emerges.
In the potential for a cutting to grow roots.
For the past year, I’ve been on a journey of rediscovering myself. Of rooting out my shadowy side. Of removing the limitations of fear. Of uncovering the seeds of joy I planted a long time ago when life was much simpler. This morning, after reflecting on my dream, I fished the dead stem out of the trash, cut off the end and planted it in a glass of water.
I’m hoping another month will reverse what one month of damage had done. That pieces of Frank will once more sprout roots, much like my dream of moving forward with a fresh clean slate, the years of damage erased. Or at least mitigated.
Maybe, just maybe, saving Frank might also save me.