Last week, approaching deadlines for paper drafts, portfolios, and other class assignments sat me frozen on my bed staring blankly out the window. In my paralysis, some yellow leaves caught my eye. The schefflera I’d cared for since 2018 and knew fondly by the name of Friday killed my faith in this world – in the area of my life that I thought I was doing right, I was failing. I left my room.
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You see, a couple years ago (before Friday), I had another dorm plant. It was a small Rosemary. This plant did not have a name. But for the sake of story, we’ll call it Mary. Mary suffered multiple fungus attacks before dying of root rot.
And even before that, I had another Rosemary. Named Rosemary. I found her in a tin can and adopted her as my own. I researched rosemaries. I removed my rosemary from the windowsill whenever temperatures dropped. I watered my rosemary religiously, all the while making sure she was sheltered from danger and received plenty of sunlight. So when Rosemary stopped growing began to turn brown, I continued our routine, confused. I painted her flower pot. I gave her some fertilizer for encouragement. I wasn’t the only person to notice my rosemary’s decline. One day, my roomate suggested
“Why don’t we take him to the nursery? Maybe they’ll be able to tell you what’s wrong.” My roommate never did get my plant’s pronouns correct. I heeded her suggestion, and she GPS-ed us to the small-business garden center down the street. We entered and approached the counter. And to my despair, the Plantsman looked once at my rosemary, and announced that she was dying of root-rot.
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Monday came, and Friday’s yellowing was becoming more severe. So I texted a friend asking if she would join me after class to take Friday to nursery. We waited anxiously in line behind an old lady buying moss at the register. The angel of death for my last plant stood across the counter.
As the old lady walked away, he said,
“Looks like it’s time to be re-potted.” My surprise and relief were almost overwhelming. I was surprised by how quickly he identified what was wrong with my plant, from 10 feet away. I was relieved that Friday wasn’t dying of root rot.
“That means she’s growing!” my friend said. I guess I had been doing something right.
Friday was re-potted with extra soil and fertilizer, and after we took a walk around the greenhouse (healthy Friday in arm), we left feeling that there was still goodness in the world.
Friday sits merrily in my windowsill again.
Sometimes, frustration is a sign that things are on their way to becoming better.