Exfoliated
I remove the dead leaves. Years ago, the office plants started hand size and now, multiple repottings later, are dense and tall. Some might say "overgrown," but they are outsized only in relation to my ability to accommodate them in a container, setting, and environment artificial to them. Foreigners, they have grown due to no expertise of my own. I care about them because I have cared for them, if only out of habit and, unlike so much else in my life, without any intention. I don't know what to do with them, whether I decide to renew my lease or vacate my office. Tossing them seems cruel and a waste, a denial of (their) nature. Earlier this week, I hosted a client meeting in the space that motivated me to spend several hours cleaning and decluttering, including rearranging the plants. Years ago, this client participated in a sustainability summer course I taught for college students. Even with his colleagues in the room with us now, the past is there, an invisible foundation despite my inability to recall many details of it. You never know the trajectory a student might pursue. Rarely do I expect it to boomerang back to me. It takes time not just to assemble an office, but to configure and grow into it, make it fit. The studio is more empty than occupied these days, but I always appreciate returning to it. It has been a refuge, a place to convene, generate knowledge, catalyze change, figure stuff out. Despite the shift to more remote work, such physical spaces are important. My decision to stay or go isn't just a financial one. Whatever I do, the plants need to be managed, liberated from their root bound pots, and repositioned so they can continue to shed their spent leaves and bathe themselves in the sun.
