Last week I used a gift card and bought my family a few plants. I put them into soil and made a home for them in my living room.
They have names, these plants, because in the Finkbeiner home everything merits a name (our blender is Sir Mix A Lot…no joke). We’ve got Violet, Jim, Flossie, Littleton, and Bill. One of my boys donated some of his rock collection to put in the soil (it helps hold the moisture in, I’ve heard). All three kiddos make sure to talk to the plants to help them grow.
We don’t currently have pets, so these succulents have filled a bit of a void (although they aren’t so cuddly).
Today, as I sat down to write I looked out the window and actually said “blah”. The sky is gray. A wintry mix is on the way (shouldn’t a wintry mix be something yummy with powdered sugar dusted over it?). I’m already tired of being cold.
But then I let my eyes rest on the plants. These 5 plus my original plant (named Muley Graves) and an air plant (named Lola). Seven plants, all green and alive and growing.
Then I said out loud, “The gift of green things”.
Yes, I sometimes talk to myself. It’s okay. I’m a writer. This is necessary.
In my brain green is the color of hope. Hope that even in a cold and frozen land spring will come. Hope that when all seems lost there is still life and love and growth through pain.
Hope that gray skies eventually give way to blue and that sunshine peeks through.
And hope is a gift.