Propagation
January slips in the front door, as the Christmas decorations head back to their home in the shop, stowed away for another day. Today’s mist floats in, soaking any clothing that’s not waterproof. I zip up my fleece jacket and make my way back to the house, now stripped to the bones after the merriment of the holidays.
My thoughts turn to spring, as the first garden seed catalog has come in today’s mail, and I start wondering what flowers should be planted. Part of me wants to start today, but the cold east wind reminds me that January has just begun, and no, it is not time to plant.
I look around the house, noticing that several philodendron plants have grown some tendrils since Veterans’ Day, and need a trim, or at least something to spiral around so they don’t drag on the floor. Besides, I want to be a gardener today, to be around the green, the new leaves, and to watch something grow and thrive. I want to chase away the grayness of this cold, windy day.
My survey of the houseplants promises several new cuttings, new opportunities for some actual gardening and new life. I rummage through the tool drawer, finding the plant shears. We’ve educated ourselves on several British gardening shows and now try to refer to them as secateurs. That sounds elegant, formal, and European. My plants and my gardening endeavors deserve a little touch of class.
A few drops of oil on the blades and the hinge, and a test the sharpness of the blades. Everything is in good working order. Snip, snip, just below the nodes where there is promise of new roots emerging, the beginning of new plants, new life. If I listen to my plants, and be a good observer, then my gardening takes on some meaningful direction and purpose.
I find a small canning jar, fill it with water and a few drops of liquid plant food, and immerse my new cuttings. They will hang out now above the sink, getting much of the feeble winter light that one yearns for amidst January gloam. When I wash the evening dishes, I’ll check on them, eager to see the beginnings of new roots, and emerging new leaves. They will gain from the steam of the hot water and the humidity of the dish drainer next to their shelf.
It is not that I am in need of too many more houseplants. But, I need the ritual, the sacrament of plant propagation, taking steps to bring forth new life, new promises of spring and renewal. In about six weeks, the babies will hopefully be ready for new pots filled with fresh soil and a splash of liquid fertilizer, and come into their own. Independent, thriving, ready to take over the last remaining spaces on the window sill.
In a few months, I’ll have my potted up success stories sending out some new growth, and be ready to move on to live with one of my friends or the challenges of a rummage sale’s plant table. Even now, my mood has lifted. I’ve gardened today, and made an effort to bring forth new life, already thinking of spring.
Neal Lemery
1/5/2024