love in a clay pot
Why do we care for the things we care about? How do we assess the value of something? Do we measure by its rarity? Its cost? Its association to someone we love? But would we still care as much for that thing if its giver had forgotten us... or if that person were no longer the center of our universe?
We named her Annie. From Annie Lennox--the favorite tune of that period in our lives of scented candle-lit evenings, painted walls, blended drinks, cook-ins-after-a-late-night-movie, much laughter with crazy friends, and zonked dreams of Egypt and the Caribbean. She didn't look too good when she first came to the house. She was certainly dehydrated, yellowing, and her leaves were stiff and dry from too much sun and not enough water. She wasn't a rarity, either. You can see her growing in every other garden.
But I loved her because she was a gift from someone who wanted to make me happy by giving her to me.
So I took care of Annie. She thrived and turned green and healthy with the right sunlight, turned soil, fresh water everyday and the occasional home-remedy of piss, milk and some left-over tequilaorwhatever in her daily dose!
Over the years, the crazy friends left one by one and grew; the candles no longer got lit as often; Annie's giver moved on to make the life that Annie's giver wanted; and the promises of Egypt and the Caribbean were just lovely memories to smile about.
But Annie stayed with me. And I stayed with her. She survived four years, two floods, heavy typhoons, scorching sunlight, nocturnal crabs and one loose goat. Whenever I felt lighthearted, she'd bloom with me. Whenever I went into my gloomy-and-heartsick mode, she'd wilt... which wasn't really quite surprising--I'd forget to water and take her out and she'd sit on my bedside table for days with only me and my misery for company! But like me, she'd jump right back to life at a snap.
When I left, I asked the two maids in the other house to take care of her especially. The maids sort of gave me a weird look when they saw Annie. They were expecting a really expensive botanical wonder, a priceless orchid or something--not this ordinary grass in her plastic pot! Never mind, I've made my orders explicit. Since I was suspicious of their disdain at my plant, I asked Nanay Lau to make sure Annie doesn't die. She messaged me once not to worry--my house is OK and "the plant" is healthy (I'm the only one who could bear to call her Annie; even Shani thinks I'm a bit bonkers for naming a grass!).
Annie may be ordinary, unspectacular, common... but the little prince hit the nail right on the head when he said this to the other roses (remember--he thought less of his own rose when he realized she was not the only rose in the world and there were others much more beautiful... after that, though, he met the cool fox who showed him some sense, and so he mouthed off to the other roses):"You are beautiful, but you are empty. One could not die for you. To be sure, an ordinary passer-by would think that my rose looked just like you--the rose that belongs to me. But in herself alone she is more important than all the hundreds of you other roses: because it is she that I have watered... because it is she that I have sheltered behind the screen; because it is for her that I have killed the caterpillars... because it is she that I have listened to, when she grumbled, or boasted, or even sometimes when she said nothing. Because she is my rose."
And the fox (this was after the much quoted what-is-essential-is-invisible-to-the-eye) went in for the ultimate kill when he said: "It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important."
It's a pretty sane way of measuring care, wouldn't you say?
We named her Annie. From Annie Lennox--the favorite tune of that period in our lives of scented candle-lit evenings, painted walls, blended drinks, cook-ins-after-a-late-night-movie, much laughter with crazy friends, and zonked dreams of Egypt and the Caribbean. She didn't look too good when she first came to the house. She was certainly dehydrated, yellowing, and her leaves were stiff and dry from too much sun and not enough water. She wasn't a rarity, either. You can see her growing in every other garden.
But I loved her because she was a gift from someone who wanted to make me happy by giving her to me.
So I took care of Annie. She thrived and turned green and healthy with the right sunlight, turned soil, fresh water everyday and the occasional home-remedy of piss, milk and some left-over tequilaorwhatever in her daily dose!
Over the years, the crazy friends left one by one and grew; the candles no longer got lit as often; Annie's giver moved on to make the life that Annie's giver wanted; and the promises of Egypt and the Caribbean were just lovely memories to smile about.
But Annie stayed with me. And I stayed with her. She survived four years, two floods, heavy typhoons, scorching sunlight, nocturnal crabs and one loose goat. Whenever I felt lighthearted, she'd bloom with me. Whenever I went into my gloomy-and-heartsick mode, she'd wilt... which wasn't really quite surprising--I'd forget to water and take her out and she'd sit on my bedside table for days with only me and my misery for company! But like me, she'd jump right back to life at a snap.
When I left, I asked the two maids in the other house to take care of her especially. The maids sort of gave me a weird look when they saw Annie. They were expecting a really expensive botanical wonder, a priceless orchid or something--not this ordinary grass in her plastic pot! Never mind, I've made my orders explicit. Since I was suspicious of their disdain at my plant, I asked Nanay Lau to make sure Annie doesn't die. She messaged me once not to worry--my house is OK and "the plant" is healthy (I'm the only one who could bear to call her Annie; even Shani thinks I'm a bit bonkers for naming a grass!).
Annie may be ordinary, unspectacular, common... but the little prince hit the nail right on the head when he said this to the other roses (remember--he thought less of his own rose when he realized she was not the only rose in the world and there were others much more beautiful... after that, though, he met the cool fox who showed him some sense, and so he mouthed off to the other roses):"You are beautiful, but you are empty. One could not die for you. To be sure, an ordinary passer-by would think that my rose looked just like you--the rose that belongs to me. But in herself alone she is more important than all the hundreds of you other roses: because it is she that I have watered... because it is she that I have sheltered behind the screen; because it is for her that I have killed the caterpillars... because it is she that I have listened to, when she grumbled, or boasted, or even sometimes when she said nothing. Because she is my rose."
And the fox (this was after the much quoted what-is-essential-is-invisible-to-the-eye) went in for the ultimate kill when he said: "It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important."
It's a pretty sane way of measuring care, wouldn't you say?
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