The Wisdom of Plants

It’s been over three years since I was gifted my very first houseplant, and in those very years I’ve grown so much. Prior to the isolation of quarantine, I was an avid hiker and backpacker. I love being outside, and especially near water; mountain meadows and coastal redwoods feel profoundly like home. I dream of one day living in a space with floor to ceiling windows and skylights to better nourish these beings in my care, and to feel as close to the sun, the sky, the coast, and the trees as possible.

Staying indoors during this pandemic with ample time to reflect has allowed me to see how my deepening relationship with plants and nature plays an integral role in the deepening of my relationship with myself and the world around me. These are lessons learned on returning to myself as part of nature—part of something greater than myself.

Slow down.

A warm, sunlit triangular wooden table full of standing and trailing houseplants. Also on the table is an assortment of small tumbled crystals. On the carpeted ground behind the table rests a large framed pink print and a crescent moon-shaped mirror.

For almost my entire life my foot had been on the gas pedal. I graduated with my bachelor’s degree from university in three years and was doing my master’s program full time while working two part-time jobs to save up money to move out. (I feel exhausted just writing that sentence.) One summer I was gifted a trip to the San Francisco Botanical Garden and a calathea ornata for my birthday. It was a beautiful day, and I remember as I held the plant I felt full of wonder, thinking about how each leaf looked remarkably like a painting. 

Naturally I next visited my local nursery and it soon became a regular destination on my weekly errands, whether I purchased anything or not. I felt peaceful just walking between the shelves of plants, breathing and allowing curiosity to guide me, noticing whom I felt drawn to.

Slowing down was initially an accidental manifestation of my desire for my plants to live happy lives. To successfully care for a plant—or any being for that matter—you have to learn to slow down: to listen, to observe, to tend. I had to check the soil to know when it was time to water. Yellow leaves and droopy stems prompted an exploration of any conditions that need adjustment. Are you thirsty? Are you getting enough sun? I kept a watchful eye for little pests. 

It was a practice I inevitably started to use with myself. Are you hungry? Do you need some rest before starting this next task? At first the response from my body was mostly silence. I was patient and continued to listen, observe, and tend as best as I could. Then, I gradually became aware of sensations. I learned that anxiety and excitement both feel like knots in my stomach. When I went on solo hikes I would talk to the trees about my life and ask for guidance, and I felt reassured in hearing their leaves rustling in the wind in response.

When we practice listening beyond words, we learn to listen with our bodies and our senses. We create space for the answers we seek to be heard. We become grounded in the trust that our bodies and spirits, just like those of all beings, know innately how to heal and grow.

Let go of perfection.

My hand gently holds the vibrant green newly split leaf of a Monstera plant, dappled with sunlight. In the background are more Monstera leaves and a small black bookshelf.

I feel so happy when my plants are happy. I feel such pride, wonder, and appreciation in watching them grow: unfurling new leaves, needing bigger pots, even blooming indoors. I also feel proud of myself, for providing good care and nurturance. The whole positive experience of having green, perky, and visibly growing plants is very encouraging and motivating.

It took me a while to learn that plants with yellow leaves can also be happy plants. That yellow leaves do not automatically signal decay, negligence, or fault. It took me a while to learn that yellow leaves are a stubbornly authentic expression of aliveness: one that embraces death as part of life and honors what is being let go of to sustain what is emerging. That aliveness challenged my very own perfectionist tendencies. 

When we look to nature, we can see ourselves as part of a greater whole of wonderfully imperfect beings. We can enjoy all the differently colored flowers that bloom in the spring. We don’t criticize a sunset for being off-center or a tree for growing crookedly. Rather, these details often impart a sense of aliveness when we notice them. Nowhere in nature do we expect a whole plant to stay green forever. Why should we be holding other people to that standard, much less ourselves?

Loss is an essential part of growth…

Overhead view of a potted agave plant with beautiful symmetrical green leaves. Beneath the plant are my feet clad in Birkenstocks and my calves in leggings. Angular shadows frame the edges of the photo.

When plants undergo a sudden change—such as being repotted or moved to a new spot—they may experience a temporary shock to their system. You may notice that for a time they seemingly stop growing or look a little unhappy. Their oldest leaves might even wilt, turn yellow, and die. The nutrients that once sustained those older leaves will instead be redirected into expanding roots and unfurling new growth. Plants inherently know the importance of rest and release during times of change.

Change impacts us, too, even positive ones. We might feel anxious or excited, depressed and exhausted, unmoored or inspired. Just like plants, times of change require more energy to orient and adapt to the new conditions we’re finding ourselves in. The more we hang onto possessions, relationships, beliefs, and patterns that no longer serve us in where we’re going, the more difficult it will be to see and embrace new possibilities. The quicker we try to move to dodge discomfort and distress, the less rooted we’ll feel.

Embodying transformative growth requires us to honor grief and loss.

…and Growth that seems invisible is still growth.

A small split-leaf trailing plant climbs a mossy trellis in its round grey pot on my bookshelf. Next to it are a small wooden bowl, a painted paper card, and another small trailing plant in a white pot. In the foreground corner are some large green Monstera leaves; on the wall behind are some rainbow light refractions, a sun-shaped mirror adorned with memorabilia, and a yellow mandala tapestry.

Some of my plants sit contentedly in their pots without any visible signs of aliveness for up to months at a time. They don’t seem to droop or discolor, nor do they get any taller or fuller. I continue to water them when they dry out but otherwise leave them be, usually feeling somewhat perplexed and uncertain of their state of well-being.

Humans have constructed a competitive and results-driven society where we’re constantly bombarded with success stories and highlight reels. The pressure for constant quantifiable progress fails to honor the reality that growth can also be slow, painful, cyclical, subtle, and even inapparent. Simply because we cannot see our growth with our eyes doesn’t mean it’s not happening, and it certainly doesn’t make it any less significant or powerful.

Imagine we’re starting a garden. We choose our seeds with excitement and care. After we plant them deep in the earth, tucking them into soil and out of sight, we patiently tend to them with water, kind words, and a sunny spot. We protect them as best as we can from harsh weather.

For many weeks, we wait for signs of life. We are hopeful, and trust the seed is growing even if we cannot yet see the little green sprout poke above ground. And at its own pace, it is growing—sending roots into the earth from which it may receive water and nutrients and join in connection with other life, establishing a foundation from which all other parts may grow. Quietly transforming from tiny seed to the being it was meant to become.

These seeds may represent parts of our authentic selves that we’ve lost touch with, or new mindsets and habits that we wish to adopt. We find safe places to plant them, such as in supportive friendships or in therapy. We tend to them with kindness, compassion, empathy, and encouragement. Though we may struggle with uncertainty, frustration, or despair as we wait, we can trust that we are growing at exactly the pace we need to.

Here’s a beautiful quote by Alice Walker illustrating the process of personal growth as the germination of a seed:

“Some periods of our growth are so confusing that we don’t even recognize that growth is happening. We may feel hostile or angry or weepy and hysterical, or we may feel depressed. It would never occur to us, unless we stumbled on a book or a person who explained to us, that we were in fact in the process of change, of actually becoming larger, spiritually, than we were before. Whenever we grow, we tend to feel it, as a young seed must feel the weight and inertia of the earth as it seeks to break out of its shell on its way to becoming a plant. Often the feeling is anything but pleasant. But what is most unpleasant is the not knowing what is happening. Those long periods when something inside ourselves seems to be waiting, holding its breath, unsure about what the next step should be, eventually become the periods we wait for, for it is in those periods that we realize that we are being prepared for the next phase of our life and that, in all probability, a new level of the personality is about to be revealed.”

Trust the process.

The lessons I’ve learned from being in relationships with plants always seem to return to the same message: trust the process. Trust in the not knowing, the not seeing ahead. Trust that you are always both growing and dying: the parts of you that are dying are giving life to parts of you that are emerging. Trust in your unique care and support needs, the practices and people and spaces that nourish you. As best as you can, trust in being right where you are, in moving at your own pace, in blooming in your own time and in your own way.

I’m still practicing this every day.