I don’t have a green thumb

When I was 20, I tried keeping a succulent alive and failed spectacularly. Within a month, it folded in on itself like a broken umbrella, and rotted away without saying good bye.

That moment persuaded me that I don’t have that green thumb. I said to myself: “Here stops a long line of women whose apartments are filled with countless thriving pots of violets all year around.“ That’s it, the matrilinear gene just didn’t translate.

Years later, observing my partner grow whatever he touches without any inherited knowledge, I became curious again. Could I, the infamous killer of succulents, also keep a plant alive?

I started filling up all empty ledges with leafy beauties. I am watering, propagating, pruning and fertilising. I poke, turn and observe the pots relentlessly. And the plants....live.

Could it be that it was not the question of the colour of my thumb, but rather the reflection of the season of my life?

At 20, I didn’t care about peace and quiet. My schedule was dictated by the whims of my youthful surroundings and being grounded was the last thing I craved.

Now, commencing the 3rd decade of my life, I am finally a person whose strongest currency is undivided attention.

And as my plants grow, so do my roots and my sense of belonging to self.