Making Room
Inches of snow pile upon the emerging green of hellebore and snowdrops, barely making their way toward the soil’s surface. Buds are scaly and tightly closed in on themselves, not ready to begin their early spring unraveling. Until the snow melts and the temperature reaches double digits, I remain inside, tending to my indoor plants.
Late fall, as the days grew shorter and the cold seeped through the logs of our cabin, my once-happy houseplants requested a home somewhere warmer — a place well lit, accompanied by a gentle breeze. They told me through subtle droops, frost-damaged tips, and stunted growth. I listened.
Too cold in their typical spot, our only sunny window — the room where I create, brainstorm, study, and plan. Their leaves, in different shapes and sizes, colors, and growth habits, were a lovely reminder of the abundance that was once right outside my door. I made the move.
A grow tent in the basement, with artificial lighting, a consistent 75 degrees, and a never-ending breeze, became their new home. My metal rolling racks are filled to the brim with heavy terracotta pots and saucers, citrus trees, and ficus crammed into corners, pots too tall for the racks hanging at every step.
It was an adjustment — from a mellow 60 degrees and soft light to this sudden tropical hiatus. We weren’t ready. We panicked. The compost bucket filled quickly as dry, brittle leaves crumbled in my hands.
We adjusted again. More water — perhaps too much. The leaves yellowed, then showed brown spots and signs of infection. Zonal geraniums first, then African violets. One by one, my plants became plagued. Grief set in. How could I allow such destruction? What even is a plant, and how can I be the one to care for them professionally with such an unsightly mess under my own roof?
All evidence had to be removed. Careful trimming of spotted leaves. Sanitizing hands and snips between each cut. A ten-percent bleach solution dried my hands and filled the room with the sterile fragrance of paranoia. Baking soda solution drenched every leaf, pot, and rack.
It wasn’t enough.
Days later, more spots appeared. A contractor bag grew heavy as I stripped the shelves. Hoarded herbs from seasons past — gone. The lavender topiary I never truly loved — gone. Excess geraniums saved from clients’ pots — in the bag. Myrtle topiaries that no longer resembled bonsai nor topiary — to the trash. Three shelves stood empty. A successful triage.
Then impulse took over. Do I even want to risk it? I cut everything back. No foliage left behind. Begonias to tubers, palms to stubs, vines stripped bare. Succulents plucked clean. Suddenly, it was barren.
Dread lingered for weeks, but a small hope remained: pruning as an act of care, not loss. I watched wounds heal, and buds swell. No more spots. No more withered foliage. We adapted to our new rhythm. Now, just shy of two months later, the plants are full and lush again. Succulents cascade. Vines wander. Health has returned.
Winter teaches this well: what must be removed makes room for growth.
