I talk to my plants. I also talk to my cats while scratching their ears and discussing the weather or what’s for dinner. But plant-to-person communication involves a different kind of communication – a vibration as I approach with watering can, noting a new leaf or bud. It’s an awareness that we have. The opening of a flower is always a cause for celebration or the ripening of a rotund tomato. I fill up my watering can at the sink, open the screen door to the patio, and see if my plants require a cool drink; some are thirsty, others not. I take time in spraying the ferns, watching their leaves drink in the mist, as does the scented geranium, its leaves billowing over a clay pot. And then there’s my spider plant.
It first arrived on my doorstep as a solitary spider contained in a paper cup, brought home by my daughter from childcare. It must’ve been a gift for Mother’s Day. I watched it bravely put out its first spider, and over these twenty years or more, I’ve replanted it; its progeny now cascade below it in a circle. I have a friend who works at a nursery. She arrives during the spring to shear its babies and to give them a life in separate pots. Generations have dropped below my window. They have taken root along the entrance to my building, sending out stems in each growing season and spreading along the walkway. I see my spider plant as a sort of Mother Goose with the one exception, it knows exactly what to do with its children—Sometimes I ask the spider how it cares for the minions that crowd its waist—how it manages to give each one what it needs to grow, the job of any parent. Because I’ve been having certain issues with difficult family members. They may not crowd my waist, but we are connected through our stems.
I spoke, incoherently spilling water all over the patio. “I’ve licked his ass twice, and it doesn’t taste good.”
I thought about the long walk I’d taken earlier in the day where I saw five white roses planted equidistant apart in the sand. Where did they come from? The roses still seemed fresh planted by some hand, and somehow, talking to my spider plant helped me to understand.
The spider answered. “Love,” she said. And the babies danced.