Introduction
It’s Growing Season, Baby
I’ve spent the last several years shouting plants’ praises from every mountaintop or microphone I can get to and even made a business around helping people successfully care for plants and cultivate more joy in their lives, but guess what: I used to be an epic plant killer. Yep, you heard me right. I, Maria, the author of this book, who’ve dedicated my life to helping people care for plants … have the longest plant-killer criminal record of almost anyone I know. In my plant-killer days, nothing was safe in my home. Although I came from a lineage of incredibly talented Italian farmers and gardeners … the gene just seemed to have skipped me.
The cycle would begin with me bringing home the prettiest-looking plant at the grocery store, hoping it would make my home look like an artfully styled Instagram or Pinterest photo. I treated the plant like another piece of lifeless décor and guiltily watched the poor innocent thing die a slow, pathetic death. After my twentieth dead houseplant, I gave up. I labeled myself a “plant killer” and decided to stick with cut flowers instead.
I also used to have little to no relationship with myself. Juggling several minimum-wage jobs to support my career as an actress, and incessantly dieting and beating myself up over my dress size, left very little room for inner work or self-love. Comparing my bank account and career with those of others distracted me from having a loving relationship with myself. Taking pride in how I hustled and “pounded the pavement” took priority over having actual pride or contentment.
To put it simply: When I learned to care for plants, I learned to care for myself. Plants became my greatest teacher. Tightly wound monstera leaves taught me patience, taking days to unfurl the tender, bright green leaves I anxiously wanted to open. My African violet’s spontaneous blooms coached me in the art of surprise and delight. My resilient garden showed me how to weather a storm. My first pothos plant, which refused to die, no matter how incorrectly I cared for it, modeled forgiveness. My mother’s six-foot-tall sunflowers tutored me in the practice of blooming unapologetically.
Vintage houseplant-care books from the ’60s, filled with sage advice, connected me to mentors from a generation I’ll never know. My heartleaf philodendron’s slow, consistent, almost unnoticeable growth inspired hope when I felt stuck and unable to move. The strawberries on my balcony reminded me of the importance of dormancy and loss with their promise of more blooms in the coming year. Seeds germinating and thrusting forth their brave cotyledon filled my heart with anticipation and joy.
In my plant-killer days, I had little appreciation for or understanding of the fact that plants were living things. I didn’t grasp the awesome truth that we had many similarities. These plants, like me, had DNA, were made of thousands of cells, and had the ability to breathe and grow. Most important, they had a fragile life, like mine, that would be lost if uncared for.
I view those “plant-killer years” as a season of dormancy; I was unaware of what I was missing, unaware of the innate part of myself that was longing to connect with nature the way previous generations had.
Learning to care for plants helped me reclaim my right to be connected with nature and wholly alive—existing with the earth, instead of against it. Plants helped me grow into a fuller, more vibrant, more aware version of myself. The joy I received from nurturing them helped me be kinder to myself. As I cared for my plants, moments of connection, empowerment, and joy I never knew were available to me, unfurled.
In this book, I’ll share with you the simple practices and stories from my journey to “Happy Plant Lady,” in hopes that you, too, are awakened and develop a lifelong relationship with plants that keeps you curious, joyful, and thriving.
It’s growing season, baby.
1
Rooted in Routine
There’s a quiet, planty revolution happening in homes around the world. People from all walks of life, in all corners of the world, are letting plants and the act of caring for them peel back their layers of overwhelm, overstimulation, and unwillingness to be with their own thoughts. They’re finding that plants reveal moments of awe, presence, and joy that are rocking their worlds.
Caring for plants is about bringing life into your home, watching it unfold before your eyes, and being a part of its success or failure. This is a life-long hobby. Our plant collections have so much to share with us, but we have to make time to listen. We make that time by creating a routine around our plant care practices. But here’s the kicker, our plant care routines aren’t only for our plants. This time is also for us—to disconnect from screens and the hustle and bustle of life and find a moment of connection and reflection.
When you set an intention to show up for yourself in a particular way, and follow through, you build confidence and feel empowered. Setting up a structured routine around your plant care practice helps tune you to the frequency of their growth and warns you when something might be going wrong. Seeing the entire life cycle of a flower or new leaf unfurl is a practice of patience and commitment. Consistency helps deepen your connection with your plants and creates space and time for you to open up to the lessons they’re waiting to teach you.
Start a plant care routine, show up, and become your plants’—and your own—best caretaker.
Look at a Plant Before You Look at a Screen
If you take anything away from this book, please let it be this: This simple and intentional practice has created more stillness and joy in my life than any expensive yoga retreat I’ve been to, workout class I’ve taken, or self-help book I’ve read (and I’ve read them all). It’s truly this simple: Look at a plant before you look at a screen when you wake up. In fact, look at several! Spend as much time as possible interacting with your plants in the morning before your screen-time adventures begin.
I used to live for the “hack” of using my phone to wake up faster in the morning, because the blue light from the screen jolts your brain out of its natural, slower “power up” mode. I’d essentially start my day by giving up my agency: allowing external factors like email, texts, and triggering social media posts and videos to dictate how the rest of my day would play out. It was a lovely distraction from my own thoughts when I did not want to be alone with them. This seemingly benign habit put me in a reactive state the rest of the day. It gave me no time to reflect on what was going on, plan for what I wanted to accomplish, or think about how I wanted to show up for myself and the world that day.
Once I started my balcony garden, things changed. I started finding so much happiness in the slow, luxurious time spent with my plants. Sitting there, with my journal, I’d dream about my long-term goals, write my gratitude list, and just sit with myself and see what thoughts bubbled up.
Looking at a plant before a screen to start my day allowed for true “me time,” for listening to my inner voice and having a little dialogue with her. It was the first time in a long time (maybe ever) that I had actually been still with myself and my thoughts. I finally gave myself permission to simply clear my mind and “be.” This practice gave me a moment of stillness amidst the insanity that is living in New York City.
Looking at a plant before you look at a screen—which really means engaging with yourself before engaging with the world—is like putting armor on to prepare for whatever the day throws at you. Spend time with plants before you lose yourself to technology, your calendar, or other people’s problems. It’s a simple shift that will change your life.
Can you armor up, plant friend?
Copyright © 2022 by Maria Failla