I’ve inherited my father’s deep and abiding love for plants—the kind of love that borders on botanical obsession. At one point, Dad was the proud parent to over 200 houseplants. The man had an indoor jungle growing in our basement: tiered shelves lined with foliage, some basking under grow lights, others lounging in the shadows. And yes, he even had a plant quarantine zone. If a leaf so much as drooped suspiciously, it was promptly whisked away to convalesce in seclusion, accompanied by the gentle strains of Japanese Kyoto music, which Dad swore had miraculous healing powers.
To prove his point, he once conducted a highly scientific basement experiment: two healthy plants, one serenaded by Kyoto melodies from a cassette deck, the other subjected to heavy metal blaring from a transistor radio. The metalhead plant promptly wilted in protest, while the Kyoto enthusiast flourished like a bonsai on a spa retreat.
Naturally, I grew up under the influence of this chlorophyll cult. Our first apartment was a verdant oasis.
As a bona fide '70s flower child, I proudly embraced the macramé lifestyle—plants hung in windows, nestled in corners, cascading from shower rods like living curtains. I was a walking Joni Mitchell song with a watering can.
But then came our relocation to the Arizona desert in the early 2000s, and my plant dreams dried up—quite literally. We couldn’t afford a separate moving truck just for the greenery (and no, U-Haul does not offer a “Jungle Express” service), so I was forced to leave my leafy companions behind. I tried to start over in Scottsdale, but real plants came with an entire entourage of bugs, and the summer sun outside reduced them to crispy green ghosts. So I surrendered to practicality and filled our home with the next best thing: fake plants, forever frozen in perfect plastic bliss.
Then, about 12 years ago, our son Alex asked for a plant for his music room. Sensing a tiny green door opening in my heart, I tiptoed back into the world of the living. I picked three hardy survivors for the job: a pothos, a mother-in-law’s tongue, and a Christmas cactus. I placed the pothos and MIL tongue in Alex’s room, and the cactus elsewhere. The first two thrived like backup dancers in a greenhouse-themed musical. The Christmas cactus? It simply... existed. No blooms. No joy. Just stoic silence.
That is, until last Christmas. Perhaps out of desperation or divine prompting, I began speaking sweet nothings to it, stroking its dusty leaves, playing—you guessed it—Japanese Kyoto music. And lo, a miracle: it bloomed! An exuberant explosion of bright pink blossoms, as if it had been waiting years just to be seen, spoken to, and serenaded.
Since then, my plant collection has crept quietly back into my life—an empty-nester’s quiet rebellion against sterile countertops and minimalism. I tuck them inside for the winter and usher them onto the porches during warmer seasons, where they sunbathe like retired botanists in Florida.
Then came the lockdown, when the world slowed to a crawl and our only sanctioned outings were to the grocery store, the Chick-fil-A drive-thru, or nature itself. I leaned harder into dirt and green things, finding that tending to plants grounded me in the truth: God is still in control, even when everything else is not. The quiet rhythm of watering, trimming, and propagating began to speak to me of deeper things—of spiritual truths rooted in leaves and soil.
Plants, after all, are living metaphors in terra cotta pots. They stretch toward the light, adapt with grace, and thrive in unlikely places. They teach resilience and patience. They bloom on their own schedule, not ours. They offer beauty, oxygen, and shelter without asking anything in return—little green philanthropists rooted in service.
And oh, how they reach for the sun. And when they’re dusty? Their ability to photosynthesize falters. There’s a lesson in that, too. Just like them, we flourish best when our leaves—our minds—are free from the grime of “stinkin’ thinkin’.”
When our bodies and souls are tended to, when we allow light and truth to reach us.
I’ve also learned that lush foliage above means nothing if the roots below aren’t healthy. The unseen, the underground, the buried-in-the-dark—this is where the real strength lies. The beauty may be in the leaves, but the victory is in the roots. And isn’t that just like life? It’s what no one sees that often determines what kind of fruit we’ll bear.
Tending to houseplants has drawn me back to the truth that this world isn’t just “nature”—it’s creation. A divine gift, brimming with wild, unfinished goodness. Plants aren’t pristine sculptures—they’re living, growing, beautifully imperfect beings. They remind me that I don’t have to be flawless to be good. Growth is sacred. Change is a sign of life. We are all works in progress, beloved by a God who isn’t finished with us yet.
So here’s to the leaves, the roots, and the sweet miracle of bloom. And maybe a little Kyoto music on the side.
