Living a nomadic lifestyle made it difficult -if not impossible- to keep plants. 

Now that I’m putting down roots, I’ve become a plant mom to a motley crew of flora and fauna:  a regal ponytail palm, a stubborn spider plant, a finicky but fragrant basil plant, a collage of multi-colored succulents, and a quartet of mini cacti. 

Tending to these carriers of emerald, sage, and kelly greens helps ground me with a daily and weekly rhythm, a ritual devoted to living energy. 

Basel the basil receives a heaping, daily dose of water, while Sita the proud ponytail palm slowly laps up a single ice cube per week. Polly Ann, the obstinate spider plant, fusses at my irregular waterings and mere attempts to gauge her mood like a parent assessing a teenager. The dazzling four cacti, whom I’ve named Juniper, Lakshmi, Draupadi, and Carla Tortelli, receive a weekly, misty spritz while sitting perched like goddesses in the golden sunlight. 

Showing up for these living entities has made me think about maintaining friendships. How often do we water our friendships’ soil? Are we overwatering, suffocating the unseen root systems or are we accidentally letting the soil become too dehydrated and devoid of nutrients? How much light does a friendship really need? Are we baking the leaves in intense heat or are we carefully placing the pots in the right spot for indirect light? 

In my mid and late twenties, I took for granted friendships, especially long distance ones, because of my own lack of gardening skills, compounded by my delicate introversion and absence of boundaries (note: resentment often blossoms not when transgressions are made by another, but from our own lack of advocating for our wants and needs). 

My time in Korea and Egypt changed me, and now I approach friendship gardening with the same auspicious observance a pilgrim makes when visiting a holy site: with joy and humble devotion (and a pinch of levity because nothing in life should be taken too seriously, especially friendship). 

When I shared the news of my thyroid lobectomy surgery with my community in Korea and asked for their help, I was met with instant, steadfast love. Molly offered up her apartment (and insisted I take her bed while she snoozed on an air mattress during the days of fall orientation, a sacrifice any Student Affairs professional knows is major). MacKenzie supported me as my caregiver (a requirement in Korean hospital culture), and stayed by my side, diligently helping me organize the many medicines and pre-surgery protocol. 

Experiencing my friends’ support and care was a sliding door moment in how I viewed relationships. My romantic partner was unable to travel with me to Korea, nor could members of my family of origin. In their absence, my community stepped in, proving that relationships shouldn’t exist in a rigid hierarchy but instead a healthy ecosystem. A romantic partner shouldn’t be placed at the top of a pyramid but within a circular orbit of other rotating priorities and relationships.

Unfortunately though, even with fellow single folks, I often see evidence to the contrary, in which romantic relationships continue receiving all the fame and focus, much to our detriment of other versions of love.

For example, I was told recently by a new acquaintance -whom I’m delightfully planting new seeds of friendship- that in her religion, romantic partnerships are considered the highest form of pushing us to be the best versions of ourselves. 

Another new friend, whom I’m delighted to see baby leaves of friendship sprouting, had tried to rationalize holding onto her inexplicable connection with a prospective partner because of how rare connections like this happen (even though the guy, by even her own account, had so many caution flags, you’d think he drove for the Indy 500). 

Trying to make sense of this feeling, she referenced Celine in Before Sunrise, 

“I guess when you’re young, you just believe there’ll be many people with whom you’ll connect with. Later in life, you realize it only happens a few times.”

Thinking about these moments, I feel sadness that society has put such a high premium on romantic relationships while also leading us to believe that deep, awe-inspiring connections are in short supply (Capitalism, are you the one up to this?). 

My skepticism can’t help but ask:

Only one person is the highest version of helping us grow? 

We only feel a transcendental connection with a few people?

Only a few folks on earth help us feel seen, known, and really loved? 

I don’t find comfort or hope in these beliefs. They render feelings of scarcity and paint for me an arid, desolate desert with a single, lonely, tired tree (who symbolizes the one and only romantic partner). 

But if that is the landscape a person yearns for, far be it from me to ever impose on one’s desires. 

I just know, especially after having a new lease on life, that my dreams and hopes yearn for something much different.

Inside my heart exists a full, luscious, and abundant garden decorated with bright, colorful petals stretching for the sun and inviting bees to nestle in. And this patch of beauty only bursts with life by the water and light my dear community pours into me.~