When September rolled around, it was time to get grounded in my life. My feet ached as they continually tried to sprout roots deep in the earth, attempting to get me to stay in one place.
After a spring and summer of non-stop travel and a decade of never living in one place longer than a year, my body reflected that ache. As the late summer leaves started to look tired, I finally surrendered to my soul-level exhaustion that was coupled with deep craving for routine, for slowing down, and for home.
With the intention and true desire to stay put in NYC for a while, I took a good hard look at my life. I noted what had been neglected and what needed nourishment and tending to.
The plants in my apartment were a metaphor for my body. One good look at either of them and you could tell they were not in a healthy state. The spider mites and the yellowing leaves mirrored the dark circles under my eyes, the heaviness I felt, and my overall poor health.
My pothos plant in particular was dying at a rapid rate. I scrambled to stop it, but the leaves were practically jumping off of it every time I turned around. As a last resort I brought it to the Sill to see if they could save it. (Spoiler: it eventually died).
I flooded the woman behind the counter with questions about plant care and she gave me lots of good advice. As I was paying for the three new plants I bought, I briefly mentioned that I was going to repot them that afternoon.
She stopped what she was doing, looked me square in the eye, and told me something that I will never forget.
She said, “You cannot, under any circumstances, repot the new plants today.”
“Think about it,” she said. “These plants are moving to a brand new environment for the first time. They will need plenty of time to adjust. They need ample time to get a feel for the sun, the air, and to get comfortable. If you repot them immediately, if you don’t give them a chance to settle into their new lives before you force them to put down new roots, they will go into shock.”
My nervous laughter swiftly turned to silence as I realized that I had never given my plants time to adjust. I had never even considered that. I had always repotted them the moment I got home.
It all hit me hard on my walk home.
Not only had I never given that grace to my plants, I’ve never given myself time or space to adjust to a new space, city, country or experience. I have always hit the ground running and expected myself to be okay with the sudden change. And when I wasn’t instantly adjusted to my new environment, I would beat myself up about it.
Maybe my system has been in shock the last 10 years, moving from place to place never giving myself the gentle and loving spaciousness it needed to adjust. Always being hard on myself if I didn't immediately feel like my full self upon arrival.
When I moved into my apartment in NYC last June 2021, I did not give myself any time to settle in. I could have taken two weeks to rest and to carefully curate my apartment, to wander the streets, delicately blinking open my eyes to give them time to adjust to my surroundings.
But instead, I did what my habit has always been. I immediately started moving and jumped right into it. Of course, I had quiet days and nights in my apartment, mornings full of solo journaling and coffee, but I had so many events. I was always going, going, going, all year long, rushing from one thing to the next. I got so used to being resilient and rolling with the punches, that I forgot to nourish myself.
Last July 2021, my body had given me gentle whispers to slow down and to take time to adjust to my new life. Come September 2022, after ignoring those whispers all year, no wonder it felt like my body was screaming at me.
I am finally listening. I am taking baby steps as I learn how to water the ground where my feet are planted. And sure, I am stumbling around a bit and there are growing pains, but let me tell you, my plants look healthier than ever.