I Am but a Plant

On a deep, grateful breath for the coming of Spring.

I opened the windows in my apartment today.

It was first thing, and I was curled up in a big sweatshirt, hair still falling out of the messy braid I slept in, as I padded over to the thermostat to turn the heat up from 60 to 65. The weather app said it was 40 degrees outside, and the morning sun was shining through my breezy curtains, dancing upon the leaves of my newly perked-up spider plant.

I made my way to the kitchen, poured my chilled coffee into a glass full of ice, watched it cascade down the ice cubes as it pooled up, up, up, all the way to the top.

And then, with iced coffee in hand, sweatshirt pulled tight against my neck, teeth slightly chattering, I made my way back to the sunny window and threw it open.

I wilt during the winter months.

I’ve always joked with my family and friends that in previous lives I was never an animal, just a plant. I thrive with lots of water and lots of sun and lots of kind encouraging words that help me stand a bit taller.

Sometimes, I catch myself staring at my peace lily, with its droopy leaves due to lack of sunlight, and think: we are the same.

Potted, firmly stuck inside, where we both prefer it, anyways. But for five months of the year, missing half of the equation needed to keep us thriving.

Missing sun. Missing air. Missing the breeze that reminds us there’s a world existing beyond the walls that we call home.

So, when I walked my feet over the sun painted patterns on my floor (a bright sun, in the beginning of March, who can even believe it?), I saw no other choice. I looked around at my plants, their browning leaves, and down at myself, with my paling, sallowing skin, and knew:

We’ve been missing this. We need this.

I only kept the windows open for one minute. The 40 (feels like 33) really did feel like 33. The cross-breeze blew a tundra into my living room, and I found myself running to shut the panes faster than I opened them.

But for that one minute, my home was filled with crisp, clean fresh air.

For that one minute, I was breathing in the world, the sun, the promise of Spring — all from the comfort, the safety, of my couch and weighted blanket and iced coffee morning ritual.

For that one minute, I wasn’t wishing away time, because I could feel peace traveling through my nose, filling up my chest, spreading out through each of my toes:

Spring has arrived, and so have I.

I opened the windows, and for that one minute, I could breathe, again.

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