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The plants that languish inside all winter are out on the deck now, feeling the sun, absorbing every raindrop, experiencing weather. But whether they are in the house or outside, they are always bounded by the size of their respective pots.
Would they rather be put into the ground? Does my big jade plant long to feel the chill soil of spring on her tender roots? During the summer, those roots would lengthen and grow straight down, no longer boundaried by clay pots' sides. What would happen to her if I didn't watch over her? What would happen to my Spanish lavender if I put her directly into the soil and let her wiggle her little toes? What would happen to any of them if I just plopped put them into the ground one spring and let them stay?
Well, during the glorious heat of summer they'd be so happy to be free. Leaves and fronds would dance with joy and roots expand with abandon. They would grow and grow and grow.
In autumn, however, abandon would change to abandonment. That first deep frost would shock the life out of them. Leaves, stems, and blossoms would be the first to suffer, their cells dying from the cold, their cell structure collapsing, the perky leaves of summer becoming slimy ribbons. We've all seen it happen.
Perhaps they'd still have hope. They'd think that their deep summer-freed roots would carry them through the cold so that they could flourish again in the spring. Oh yes, the leaves are gone, they'd think, but roots are sturdy and can survive. Hope springs eternal, apparently, even among houseplants.
They don't know our winters, do they? They've seen our winters only from the safety of sunny windows. What do they know of this cold that freezes the earth and turns the life-giving water to ice, ending growth? They know only safe warm pots.
So I guess it's up to me, again, to play God, play mother. I tell them I know best. I keep them in their pots for their own good. They'll thank me, won't they, when they're sitting in my sunny alcove next winter, safely potted and completely protected from the winter's death-blows.
But I secretly wonder whether they might prefer that summer of freedom. Perhaps they are willing to pay the price for a summer of unbridled joy. I think about that. And then I let those thoughts go and I make a note on my to-do list to water the plants.
Copyright 2008 Ann Tudor
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