In my house, smack dab front and center, I have a small Ficus benjamina, commonly known as a Weeping fig. This plant has been nicknamed the “drama queen” of my household. It had wilted and shed its leaves to nothing, then recovered, grew, and died all within minutes because I looked at it wrong. It is both a pride and a sore spot in my plant collection.
This fall, my plant has been particularly moody. It started dropping all of its leaves! Simply put, it has seen better days (and worse ones).
Looking forward to the holiday season, I am tempted to give up and toss the branches, as the plant has commandeered the central window spot, my ideal Christmas tree placement. Moving on to better things would certainly open up the opportunity for a prettier houseplant. But something about the plant is encouraging me not to give up, maybe because I see just a little bit of myself in this plant.
The first day I brought home the plant, it was full of bright green leaves, healthy, stunning. It all went downhill from there. Just like when I was younger, I wanted to be famous when I grew up. I wanted to be a star, attend large events, and see the newest, hottest things. Fashion star, rock star, movie star – it really didn’t matter as long as I was front and center. Then, I got older and grew. From a wonderful plant, the leaves shed, leaving only sticks and realistic expectations. Similarly, I grew and grew, reaching the age where I began to learn in school. My expectations became slightly more reasonable. How disappointing.
Then, down to a singular leaf, the plant grew. One methodical leaf at a time. Branches were trimmed, and a main branch started to show promise. Just like when I was younger, I wanted to be a teacher when I grew up. I wanted to work with people. Reading stories, writing on the whiteboard, and passing back work in a color-coordinated fashion. Then, I got older and grew. Sending out tentative leaves to test out the opportunities. More options became evident. How hopeful.
Over a series of weeks, maybe months, new branches began to split off. Filling in once bare spots, the plant once again began to look promising. Just like when I was younger, I wanted to be an architect when I grew up. I wanted to build things, a type of artist that ignored the rules to create something that nobody had ever seen before. Then, I got older and grew. I read and studied, and eventually reached the point where I had to decide what kind of degree I wanted to earn. Finally, the plant needed to be upgraded. More soil and room to grow. How exciting.
The plant had great growth, it got a new pot, fresh soil, and immediately began to wilt. Just like when I was younger, I wanted to be a wedding planner when I grew up. I wanted to be the one at the end of the aisle, straightening the gown before the lucky bride made her entrance. I wanted to be right there when large moments were happening, sorting the chaos and easing a potentially stressful situation. Then, I got older and grew. I graduated from college, moved home, and became a manager. All these opportunities, and I wilted. How frustrating.
Wilting leaves are recoverable. A few sunny afternoons and dry soil had the plant looking almost as good as new, just like yesterday. When I grow up, I want to be a little bit of everything. I want to attend large conferences and see new plant varieties before they come into the store. I want to organize and play all day, teaching people the right plants for their spaces. I want to design, thinking of how to make something completely new and unique in the world of gardening. I want to be there, on someone’s special day, answer in hand, making one more thing less stressful. More than anything, I want to continue to grow. Like my ficus, that’s the wonderful challenge.
