Putting Down Roots
I moved to México more than three years ago. I am a legal permanent resident, which means I can live here indefinitely.
When I first arrived in Guanajuato, my city, I had the sense that it was temporary. “I’m here temporarily,” I would tell people, “but I don’t yet know what ‘temporary’ means.”
I spent countless hours researching other cities. Surely there was another city in México that has the charm, walkability, and climate that I like. I was convinced I only needed to find the right one, and then I’d pack up the kitties and all my stuff, the stuff I brought with me and all that I’ve accumulated since moving here, and move to my “forever” city, the one that fit every criteria.
Every year when I renew my lease I wonder. How long will I stay here? How long will I endure the footsteps clacking in the apartment above mine, the incessant high-pitched barking from neighbor dogs, the crumbling walls, the hard rented bed?
And every year, I decide I’m not ready to move. I’m not ready to pack up all that stuff and go off into the unknown. I don’t even want to acquire much new stuff, just in case I move. Certainly not plants.
Two years ago, a new neighbor moved in. Over time we became friends. She spent a lot of time in our tiny shared front garden, and sometimes I’d step out and see her sitting on the bench, eyes closed and face turned towards the sun.
She grew plants. Plants appeared in pots along the steps: a lavender, succulents, tiny cacti, and one that looked like marigolds.
When she traveled, she asked me to care for her plants. There were even more inside her apartment, a whole table filled with them, plants lining the front entry, plants rioting in the kitchen window. I enjoyed caring for them, loving these green beings on behalf of my friend.
When my friend died last fall, her children said I could take whichever of her plants I wanted. I chose to keep the outdoor ones because indoor plants don’t mix well with my kitties.
So I duly watered them and bought fertilizer for them and sent them love on my friend’s behalf. Over time, it became on my behalf.
Every June there is an enormous outdoor plant sale in one of the parks here. Vendors set up tents with rows and rows of potted flowers and plants.
I went this year and bought several: pink and purple vinca, orange gazania, yellow and orange kalanchoe, something with tiny purple flowers that hummingbirds like, asparagus fern, succulents, and a tiny cactus. I bought colorful pots from the ceramic shops in my neighborhood. I bought rich black soil. I repotted my new friends and bought little ironwork stands for their colorful new pots. I felt the soil on my hands, life on my hands.
The purple vinca withered and died but the pink one survived. The gazania looks too dry, its leaves curled and browned at the tips, but there are two new flower buds. The kalanchoe still blooms but some blooms are withering now. The asparagus fern has a brown frond. Every day I go out and look at these friends, asking them what they need. Do the geraniums need more water, or less? What is causing their lower leaves to yellow and drop?
Today I moved several of the more fragile plants to the back patio, the one off my bedroom. I think they were getting too much sun in the front. Now I sit and see the pink vinca in its bright pink pot standing proudly between the asparagus fern and the little volunteer tree I uprooted from where it had been growing in the big planter bed out front.
It finally feels like I live here now.