A little inexplicitly resilient

The purple shamrock response to being dumped on one's head

I have a small purple shamrock plant on my desk. It was a $5-find at a farmer’s market this summer.

It reminds me of a purple shamrock I received as a birthday present from my youngest brother in 1996. He was not yet eleven. I had just turned 23. As he presented it, the plant tipped out of his hand, landing on its head. I picked it up quickly, testifying it was fine without knowing if that was true.

It was.

Three months later, I got married. The plant came with me. It witnessed three kids, two cats, two dogs, and several moves. It saw many other houseplants come and go, dappling their green with its purple. It was both over-watered and under-watered. It was dropped on its head more than once and thought dead more than once. And yet, it always returned, inexplicably resilient.

When I had owned that plant for 16 years, it started to have a blight, which blackened the purple leaves and mushed the green stems. I kept nursing it with my brown thumb and my murmured prayers and divided attention, waiting for it to return.

It didn’t.

That was nearly ten years ago, right around when my youngest brother got married. He has two kids and a mortgage now. We see him on the holidays when we are not at our respective in-laws.

This year my husband’s job took us 344 miles away from the home where the purple shamrock died, where we raised our kids to adulthood, where those adult children now live, paying a pittance for rent while eyeing the next adventure.

I was quick to repair and paint our new home but slow to decorate. Decorating was nesting, and I wasn’t ready. We brought a few plants from home, mostly so my son’s new cat doesn’t eat them. They didn’t travel well, convalescing by the slider door like ICU patients.

One hot weekend in July, we went to the farmer’s market. We walked around like guests at a wedding who only knew the bride and, even then, not that well. When I saw the small pots of purple shamrocks, an unexpected feeling of familiarity came to me.

$5 is a bargain for familiarity.

Instead of placing it with the other plants, I took it to my undecorated office, setting it on my desk by the window. I gave it a plastic green soap dish for a base that flatters the green stems. I study it when the muses aren’t speaking to me, which is often for this poor poet.

In this quieter version of my life, I notice the stems move toward the light, and I find myself rotating it during the day so the stems will grow tall. Its blossoms have multiplied.

I’ve decorated the office in the month since, decking the unfamiliar with the familiar, wondering when it will feel like home or if it ever well. I feel differently when I see this plucky, little plant stretching for the light – a little more aware all change feels like loss initially, a little less aware my life’s been dumped on its head, a little more hopeful, a little less afraid, a little inexplicitly resilient.