Lady’s Slipper
Thursday, November 10, 2011
The orchid on my desk has begun to bud. Within the green capsule, clenched tight as if is was holding a precious pearl, there is a single violent red streak which holds a sign of the color to come. But for right now, the bud is mostly green, the stalk stands erect, shooting out from the pot on my desk, ignoring the fact that my roommate and I sit downstairs most nights planning Christmas cakes and cookies to make over the next month.
I bought this particular lady’s slipper orchid last June off of eBay, when it became otherwise impossible to find such a flower in red. I had successfully gotten orchids to rebloom for the past three years and, growing increasing tired of seeing the same orchids redundantly displayed at Tesco, and desperately wanting to grow a flower which was a passionate shade of red, I invested in an purchase I was otherwise clueless about. So much so that when I opened up the plant I quickly went back to my computer to ask the farmer why he used pesto as a potting medium… It ended up being a symbiotic form of algae.
For the next six weeks the little orchid did nothing but drop leaves on alternating sides. A total of five leaves turned yellow and dropped off. Each time I’d loose another one I would think it was over and the planted had righted itself after suffering and conquering whenever ailed it. But then inevitably another leaf would crinkle slightly before turning a vibrant combination of yellow and red and dying. I was feeling as if I had no business buying an orchid outside of Tesco in the first place. I knew nothing of taking care of something which had so much potential for beauty and grace. Frantically I attempted my cure all solution for every problem: I googled everything possible I could find on orchid care. Moving the plant into one room, then back out, watering once a week then everyday, I frantically tried to take everyone’s advice at once. Finally I decided on the obscurely obvious.
The orchid knew more about raising itself than I could ever know.
So, I brought the plant back to my desk, gave it a little bit of water each day, and resigned myself to plant succumbing to the fate of his choice. There was nothing I could do to force it otherwise.
And then it lost another leaf.
Then, after a while and for reasons known only to itself, the plant started to be happy again. No longer did the leaves fall or turn yellow. Those that remained were healthy, smooth, and aligned themselves with the sun. There wasn’t panic every time I looked at my desk and saw it. Within a few more weeks a stem grew and a bud began to form, creating an optimistic fascination for me rather than blame and dread. Cells, multiplying on a molecular level at an alarming rate, I watch day after day at the plant reads its own blueprint of how it should build itself. I wouldn’t even know how to begin to make such a feat occur. When the flower opens up, its intricacies and architecture will be of an incalculable mathematics. And I cannot help but humbled by the fact that all I can do is give the plant a little bit of water every few days. Much of anything beyond that is just interfering.