Pièce de Résistance

Last January Jim and I packed our car to the gills for an extended stay in Florida. We loaded in trash bags full of warm weather clothes; the usual beach towels, and blankets. Beach chairs got crammed on top of boxes of cooking spices. Random stuff got tucked in like golf clubs, shoes, books, and yoga mats. No one would think we had room for one more thing - except for me. The last thing to go into the car before we took off, and the most precious? 

    

    I’ll get to that, but first a little background; I’ve got a bit of an issue and to support my fixation I, well, I kind of, sort of, steal. I don’t hide my habit; anyone who knows me sees the evidence.  If you go out for a walk with me you just might see me in action. Heck, you all are probably partners in crime. It’s hard for me to trace the origins of this condition. I don’t remember anyone giving me direct instruction. On the other hand, both my father and both grandfathers were known for this. Although we don’t talk much about it, my three sisters have the same proclivity. Perhaps I can explain this as a legacy? I have been undertaking this behavior for as long as I can remember

    

    Alright, alright, I’ll fess. I take cuttings from plants. Big whoop, right? And the last thing to go into the car on our road trip was a paper cup of water that held some coleus cuttings I’d clipped at the end of summer. 

    

    I’d like to hear about your approach, but my clipping style tends away from the flagrant.  Instinctively, I try to obscure the pinch off and quick slip of stem into the folds of my jacket or bag. It’s not the sort of thing people are on the lookout for, but still. And, I’m not indiscriminate. For years I watched a neighbor’s sedum groundcover before I pinched off a piece. Not to be defensive, but the way this particular succulent creeps into the lawn’s edge makes me think it might be a vestige from an eons-ago-garden. It’s hard to say this, but I’ve seen their lawn service mow it down ruthlessly on more than one occasion. I’m telling you, a cutting was begging to be taken. I remained hesitant, but luckily this particular plant travels. Eventually, in a waterfall effect, it spilled over the curb and rooted itself into debris that collects in the street. When I finally took a piece of it, it felt less like a kidnapping and more like a kind of adoption.

    

    A nature enthusiast, I am courteous to both the gardener and the plant. Basil, mint, coleus, begonia, impatiens, philodendron, hydrangea are a few of my favorite conquests. I don’t clip them because I’m cheap and I’m nowhere near a botanist. All I know is that when I put these babies in a glass of water on the windowsill over my sink, very dependably, roots appear and I get to watch that slowly happen. I am totally hooked on the consoling miracle of water propagation. I’m not kidding when I say it’s a kind of spiritual practice. 

Coleus are one of my favorite conquests!

Perhaps you can imagine my chagrin, when the word proplifting trips me up in the process of writing this post. I find out that in 2017 a woman, named Sarina Daniels, created a portmanteau of the word propagate and shoplifting, and as a joke posted it on some social media.  Quickly, Wikipedia explains, an online community of dedicated practitioners sprouted and a huge ethical debate has put roots down in a subreddit. (sorry, I couldn’t resist)     

     

    I’m trying hard to take this in. I thought we plant cutting folks were part of a crunchy, underground cadre of lucky ducks. Somewhere along the line we learned the secret of totipotency, a plant cell’s super-power ability to create an entirely new plant. Jack Pine Savage recently suggested that folks who notice things that others do not are said to have a poet’s soul. Is there some misguided muse with whom I now must reckon? Watching cuttings grow roots has always been my quick fix; God on my windowsill; confidence in a cup; a simple, watery embodiment of  abundance. It’s a poetic hit tantamount to prayer: the expectant peeks at lowly stems, the worrying wait, the ultimate wispy-root-reward. I feel like an innocent as I nurture this metamorphosis of nature. Instead, I’m a criminal?   

    

     I think not. The fact that Jim didn’t balk when I wedged my cup of coleus into our car’s console could be up for discussion. I like to think his tolerance is due to our ongoing efforts at equanimity across the 55 years we’ve been married. For sure, he knows my quirks and has traveled more than once with soggy cups of cuttings. But, you be the judge. They survived the trip, flourished on our balcony in Florida and are now begging to be clipped into new cuttings for this season’s garden. I ask you, how can anyone resist?

Who can resist?