HOMEBODY AND HER ORCHIDS

In the last scene of the movie ’28 days’, a kooky ex-addict, Gerhardt, cries over a dead plant, insisting that he did everything to keep it alive: talking to it, stroking it, naming it and all that jazz. When the florist asks whether he watered it, Gerhardt pauses, looks down at his lifeless friend, and breaks down all over again, feeling ashamed at his own ineptitude. He has failed the ‘plant test’ of rehabilitation - that indicates that if you’re able to take care of yourself and a plant, then you’re capable of entering new relationships and adjusting in an uncertain world without the crutches you’ve been previously used to.

So when I moved to St. Albans, I bought an orchid inspired, in part, by Stephen King’s excellent definition of homesickness, which he calls it the ‘ache of the uprooted plant.’ I didn’t struggle with addiction or relationships, but I was displaced and uprooted, put in a climate that made me cold inside and out; transplanted among people who weren’t my friends or family. For a long time I felt a certain disability of spirit - an existential cowardice where I would wake up in bed, wide eyed and trembling, wondering where the familiar sounds of my life had gone. There was no whining of the low-voltage ceiling fan or the khat-khat of nearby construction. I even found myself longing for the caw of the crows and the chirp of the mynahs and the mournful sounds of the Azaan which, though depressing, at least provided my day with structured intervals. 

Everything was a hurdle: interaction with in-laws whom I hadn’t figured out yet; using the dishwasher and washing machine for the first time in my life; buying a ticket for the train or topping up my oyster. What I hadn’t expected about homesickness or orchid care was the constant feeling of stupidity that underpinned everything I did.

So when I went to Morrisons to do some groceries and saw an  sad looking orchid plant for sale for £5, I decided to adopt it. I was to discover later that orchids are the moodiest of plants. They prefer a rainforest’s humidity, grow under the shelter of thick trees, reaching towards dappled sunglight and like only an occasional soaking. And yet they thrive in nearly every house in the UK. Go figure.

I killed my first orchid by  overwatering it, constantly  changing its position in the house and spraying it with feed every time I looked at it. In short, I coddled it to death. I was exercising too much control, on it and also on myself. I was trying to fit in my new environment as soon as possible: forcing myself into relationships that were never going to work, with people who were too different or simply uninterested. I took two driving tests, gripping the wheel, clenching my teeth, not breathing - and failed both of them. So when the florist proclaimed that my orchid was dead, I was, like poor Gerhardt, devastated.

Yet life is a strange thing. It will prevail just when you stop coercing it to do so.

I bought a second plant and this time, read and youtubed everything about orchid care. I discovered that they require room. Their roots need to be freed from the packaging and aired and sprayed but only occasionally. They need conversation and love and careful replanting. So I let my orchid be, freeing  its roots from the moss and bark and replanting it in a bigger pot that gave it more room. To my amazement, it perked up after a week. I was jubilant!

And then its flowers all fell off. 

However, the leaves were still waxy and green.

Battling panic, I went on to google and read that this was the dormant period where the orchid stores up energy to re-bloom. I placed my poor plant pet on my side table and encouraged it,  ignoring my husband’s comment that it was a  highly depressing sight, with a single stem reaching into empty space, colourless and gnarled.

Taking my cue from my poor plant, I also took a while to be still. I let go of many people whom I thought would welcome me with open arms but who refused to do so. And in doing so I opened myself towards new relationships - friends who opened up a new world of camaraderie and culture and knowledge. I let go of trying to do everything perfectly - and passed my driving test. Quite by accident, I ended up setting up local meet up groups in the area and also stumbled into a book club of lovely ladies who liked to talk about life and the meaning of it. I gave my brain time to cool down and creativity crept in and I’ve started writing again.

I no longer wake up with dread and panic.

And just yesterday, I am happy to report that Le Orchid  has flowered. 

Little alien pods had clustered at the end of its stem all of last week, bunching and puckering up. I waited for one month with baited breath - trying not to get too excited because you know - if an orchid becomes unhappy, these buds implode from within and refuse to open up. But yesterday, beautiful teak and orange flowers with pink faces greeted  me in the early dawn, vibrantly silhouetted against the glazed window and the early light of the grey dawn.

I screamed and startled my husband who jumped out of bed with remarkable agility - ready to battle whatever foe had wandered into our sleepy sanctuary. Needless to say he wasn’t as enthused when he found out the orchid was the cause of his scare, groaning and grumbling all the way to the bathroom about ugly plants and crazy wives.

I can’t stop admiring my orchid. I honestly can’t. It has shown so much grit and perseverance. It looks at me and seems to say - if you can take care of me, woman, you can do the same for yourself. I went today and purchased 3 or 4 more and have created a small forest of thick leaves and green-grey roots and vibrant flowers. There will be challenges and more obsessing, but there will also be great beauty at the end of all the effort. I’m hoping I can say the same for my new life here.