a love letter

to my fiddle fig plant

when i first moved out after our break up and into my apartment, i went to home depot in search of a plant. i wanted a fiddle fig because i felt like it was the only plant that could make my apartment look more sophisticated and polished than it was or ever could be. irrationally, i thought if i had a fiddle fig, i could get away with an ikea side table. i didn’t where this idea came from and it didn’t make sense but i wanted nothing more than the sprawling fussy plant. i found one at home depot and i was relieved that it was on sale for half off. most of the plants looked like they were wilting or dying under the grey fluorescent lighting. this fiddle fig was the most alive looking one in the middle of the pitiful garden center. the leaves felt young and soft but the stem seemed too thin to carry the leaves i hoped i could help it grow.

i was worried i would kill it as i’ve killed most plants. six years ago, jeremy installed planters so i could have a balcony garden because i wanted to grow herbs like cilantro and parsley and i even tried growing garlic. i followed the instructions on the seed packet, planting them an inch into the soil, watering when necessary, but it didn’t matter. they sprouted but i couldn’t keep them alive. i couldn’t help them grow. a friend of jeremy’s came to visit and gifted us a plant as a celebration of us recently moving in together. i told her i would take care of it, i promised myself that i would keep it alive. i tried because i took this little plant to symbolize our relationship and i held the childish superstition that if i killed it, our relationship would die too. slowly the leaves started to turn yellow and the leaves started to fall off one by one. maybe i poured too much love into it by watering too frequently, worried i wouldn’t water it enough so it would shrivel and brown. instead, i drowned it to death.

i moved the fiddle fig to various points in my apartment, worried that it was getting too much sun or not enough. i watered it every week or twice a week when i wondered if it was extra thirsty. it went on like that, day after day for over a year. when jeremy and i were apart, i would spontaneously tell him my fiddle fig was still alive. i haven’t killed it yet. i didn’t know how to take care of it, really, but i tried to nurture it and tried my best. this time, it wasn’t really about love but it was learning that i could take care of something, something known to be mercurial and finicky, and maybe that meant i could learn to take care of myself.

i haven’t been home much lately. i’m at my apartment maybe 1 or 2 days a week, if that. i spend most of my time at jeremy’s so we can rebuild the home life we once shared. i came to my apartment yesterday, set my bags down on the floor, and went to water my plants. i suddenly noticed how tall my fiddle fig is now, i can see how much she has grown. she has new leaves at the very top and i wish i was tall enough to feel how soft and tender they are. she’s nearly touching the ceiling now. i’m proud of her. of how she’s been able to grow in less than ideal circumstances. a tiny apartment filled with sunlight but doesn’t have the space for her to stretch and sprawl out. she’s been with me for almost two years and i never noticed how much she’s been growing, quietly and consistently, on her own time.

it goes like that, doesn’t it? the quiet steadiness of growing and changing and finding our way to new depths. i think of who i was last year and who i was even two months ago and how much i’ve grown since then. it doesn’t seem like much because it’s been gentle and thoughtful. but i think that’s the most surprising type of growth- a quietly magnificent transformation.