The Balm
Right Here
Communing with Plants
Words by Amber Burns-Jones
Photos by Kendrick Jones
“For me, it sometimes doesn’t feel so easy to pause, center, and listen to nature’s messages… Organizing can be chaotic and exhausting. But nature has taught me that while chaos exists we can always have balance. I am learning to listen to those resiliency messages from nature… Nature makes shifts to resist, rebuild, restore, and create. It strives toward balance, wholeness by being in togetherness and harmony with each other.”
- Beatriz Beckford
It’s still 2020. Collectively, we are experiencing a global pandemic, uprisings for Black Lives, and all of the hardships associated with everyday life. Chronic grief over the violent loss of Black life has left me, like many others, exhausted and filled with anxiety. I hold on to my partner and four small children, but they aren’t enough to soothe my aching heart. The balm has been returning to a daily routine and viewing the most mundane acts as beautiful rituals. This has kept me grounded and able to flow with grief without being overcome.
I begin my daily practice with plant caretaking, before attending to my other obligations. Prioritizing this time is an act of resistance. It is a reminder that my humanity comes before what society asks of me. I share my home with over 60 plants, mostly philodendrons, succulents, and hoyas. Soil is sprinkled across surfaces. It gathers under my nails and between my children’s toes. I lean on the practice of plant caretaking because of the daily lessons that plants offer. Their wisdom is folded into the fabric of their being; the ways they communicate, their willingness to let go of what no longer serves them, their patient movement, and their acceptance of care.
WATER.
“All water has a perfect memory and is forever trying to get back to where it was.”
– Toni Morrison
Take in what your body needs. This is a weekly reminder as I raise my watering tin. I test the soil first, sinking my fingers into the pot. Is there moisture here? Is the soil dry to the touch? When we pause long enough to listen, plants communicate their needs. The leaves of my horsehead philodendron were curling with thirst. I misted her lightly then offered a deep drink, water swelling in the saucer beneath her. Within a few hours, her limp leaves became plump again. Her body stretched upward, climbing the thin branches planted in her pot.
I am worthy of water. Clean. Abundant. Satisfying. I will make time to sit, pour my glass, and drink uninterrupted. I will savor every drop. I thank the sky for rain, the earth for rivers, and my mama for teaching me the value of water.
GENTLE TOUCH.
“I touch my own skin, and it tells me that before there was any harm, there was miracle.”
― Adrienne Maree Brown
My partner and I practice gentle parenting. We teach our children that all beings should be treated with love and care. When a being invites us to physically engage with them, we do so with light touch. We touch with the intent of not causing harm. This applies to plants. If met with too much force, a stem could break. A healthy leaf could prematurely fall. With these instructions, my children eagerly approach the plants crowded around our window. I remind them to slow down. They extend their small hands, showing restraint. They pet a small pilea and hug the large Monstera deliciosa. Though they have the best intentions, my children still break a stem off the jade tree. Their heads drop, ashamed. Guilt and sadness hover over them like a dark cloud as they bring me the injured limb.
Plants are resilient. This jade tree experienced harm at the hands of my children. And my children’s hands, with my support, planted the fallen stem back in the soil. They nurtured it, sang to it, and within a few weeks, the stem took root. New leaves have blossomed. A baby jade tree has been brought into the world.
I am worthy of gentle touch. All are worthy of gentle touch. I will do as little harm as possible. And if I cause harm, I will use it as an opportunity for transformation; mending what I can, accountable for my actions.
SLOW MOVEMENT.
It is time for a new way. Rest and slowing down will be the foundation for this liberated future that many are screaming about online, in the streets during the uprisings for Black Lives, and in our hearts. We are not well. We are exhausted and disgusted. I am still grieving from hearing in disturbing detail the lynching of George Floyd by police in Minnesota. I did not watch the video and will never watch the video. I protect my heart and eyes from what my bones already know – I am a target in America. This is not new information. It’s ancient.
“We are grieving and may not even want to recognize it or hold space for it because of our socialization to ‘Keep Going!’ This denial of the process of grieving creates more trauma and in the long run, disrupts our healing… Grinding keeps us in a cycle of trauma. Rest can disrupt this cycle.”
-Tricia Hersey
Plants teach us that small intentional steps are valuable and take us closer to the Sun.
Every day I commune with my plants. I ask them questions. I pay attention to their body language. I notice growth. I was having difficulty meeting the needs of my swiss cheese plant, Monstera adansonii. I positioned her next to a bookshelf where she received indirect light. A few weeks into our relationship, she began to droop and change in color, so I moved her closer to a large window. Still, she was not happy. I moved her once more to the kitchen where the light is bright and indirect. I left her alone, only watering her when asked. I have witnessed new growth. New stems reaching in the direction of the window.
My calathea plant is constantly moving. As day fades to night, her leaves gather together, creating a cocoon. When the sun rises, her leaves begin to ascend, a flower spreading its petals in spring. Plants move all day with purpose and without rush.
Small steps. Slow movement. Unwarranted urgency is a tool of white supremacy. I am reclaiming my time.
BREATH.
Everything starts with breath. I practice deep breathing, filling the belly then pushing breath up through the chest and out my mouth. Long exhales of CO2, releasing waste my body no longer needs. My plant friends take in the CO2 that would otherwise cause me harm, and expel oxygen; nourishment filling the spaces between us. Cycles. Symbiotic relationship. Right relationship.
In which direction are you growing? Are you moving toward the Sun and life? Have you checked your roots? In what soil are you grounded? What nutrients are you missing? What nutrients do you have?
For over two years I have been in an intentional relationship with plants. The ritual of loving them, caring for them, and indulging my curiosity until I ask the right question, has enriched my life and relationships. How are we relating to one another and the world around us? What are we feeding? Are we moving at a steady pace, asking questions along the way? Are we treating ourselves and each other gently? Are we remembering to breathe?
May we tune into our plant friends’ frequency. These ancient beings may lead us closer to the Sun.
About the Creatives
Amber (Left) is a southern writer, conjurer and birth doula.
Kendrick (Right) is a creative capturing the magic and mysticism of everyday life.