Advertisement Leaving work one day, I found her sitting in a Jell-O cup on the sidewalk by the driver’s side door of my car. The plant looked like a lost puppy and no one was in sight. So I set her in my cupholder and we drove home.
Not long after the two of us began living together, a friend spotted “Natasha” lightly written in orange marker on the Jell-O cup.
I did my best with the plant, watering her, transferring her to a bigger pot with the help of another friend. But the air or the sun in my apartment at the time was hard on Natasha. She’d get droopy, and I’d bring her over to friends’ homes for a few days to regain strength and then bring her back and try a new spot in my apartment.
Sadly, after setting her outside for an evening in the fresh air, I awoke the next morning to find someone had stolen my friend, probably for her pot.
But while Natasha is gone, the lessons she taught me about caring and being cared for by Creation remain. Since meeting her, I’ve found myself relating more deeply with these silent members of the family of life on our planet.
What I don’t have is knowledge about plants. I can’t even tell you what kind of plant Natasha was.
Steve Engber, on the other hand, has documented more than 90 species on his family’s half-acre property in Onalaska, Wis.
On Thursday, I went to talk to Steve, 55, about the wonderment of plants.
A light rain smudged my ink as I scribbled down the names of plants in Steve’s yard: Indiangrass, Big Bluestem, Solomon’s Seal.
He showed me how a cup plant gets its name from the way the leaves fill with water when it rains, and he showed me garlic that his friend, who died of cancer at age 52, gave him.
“Drop it and run,” she had told him, because the non-native species spreads fast.
Most of the plants there are native, however, and this has spiritual significance for Steve.
“People plant things,” he said, “because they want them. They like them. But when you walk into a natural environment that’s pristine, it’s that way because God designed it.”
Native species require little to no watering because they live in their homeland, where they have adapted to the weather cycles.
“When you get to the microscopic level,” said Steve, who likes to look at plants through a lens, “the design is just breathtaking.”
I appreciate Steve’s knowledge.
While I stand in the presence of plants, gaze at their mystery and feel awe without even knowing their species, walking with Steve through his yard felt like walking with Adam as he named the vegetation in the Garden of Eden.
I looked at an elegant plant as tall as a human and Steve told me it was wild lettuce.
A mosquito bit me as we came upon a nugget of red berries on the ground, and Steve said they’re from a Jack-in-the-Pulpit.
I also enjoy naming plants myself.
In my apartment now live nine plants, all gifts from friends except one — a bonsai tree I named Caterpillar and gave to my roommate.
On the floor by the record player is Waterfall, a spider plant I’m watching for a friend living overseas, and on a table is Waterfall’s offspring, named Roots.
In front of a painting of the ocean is a plant whose stems grow toward the window. When it was smaller, these stems made the plant side heavy, and one day it fell over.
I now call it Pulled Down by the Sun.
If there is any water left over after I water Pulled Down by the Sun and the others, I like to take a swig myself. The act is a prayer for me and reminds me of the life we share.
Joe Orso works part time for the La Crosse Tribune and the Franciscan Spirituality Center. Opinions in this column are his own. He can be reached at jorso@lacrossetribune.com or (608) 791-8429.
