Every morning after CR leaves for work, I putter around my conservatory corner, plucking dry leaves, picking up the begonias that litter the (white) carpet, sweeping up the tiny, tiny seeds scattered by the papery blossoms on the Swedish ivy. There is nothing particularly exotic here, just ordinary houseplants, but I think it should be noted that I have ferns that are older than my children (Ian once gave him a big haircut and he survived just fine). There is a coleus descended from cuttings I took from a plant that grew at a restaurant I worked in college. I took care of the plants that hung around the skylights, and I loved the transition of coming in from school, hectic and tired and stressed, then going to check the plants before the rush started. Watering them. Making sure everybody was okay. It grounded me.
It still does. I give the cyclamen a drink of water and peer into the greeny darkness of the pot to see if there are any buds coming up (there might be, finally!). The begonias are blooming. The rex got cold or something and isn’t thriving. Not sure why. I poke my finger into the soil. Admire the sunlight coming through the east window. It’s quiet. The plants are breathing out fresh oxygen, stretching into the morning. I’d like, someday, to have a conservatory or a greenhouse. It would be relaxing.
When I’m done, after three or ten or twenty minutes, I’m ready to pour a fresh cup of coffee and take it upstairs and get to work.
What do you do to start your day?