For my birthday this year, my sister took me to a Plant Nite. It’s like Paint Nite, where a facilitator walks everyone through creating a painting but with a terrarium instead of a canvas.
Amazingly, I have kept two of the three little cacti dudes alive. This is a story about the panda that lives in the glass bowl with the two plants.
It was an ordinary Tuesday. The man brought the things to the box on the house, and even though he does this a lot, fur friend jumped on the window, leaving smudgie nose and paw prints on it as she arfed.
Then she lay on the chair’s arm and yawned. “What’s up, little dude?” she thought to herself as she looked at me through the glass. I actually have no way of knowing these were her thoughts since she can’t talk, but I’m guessing it was something like that because she looked at me and smiled, her tiny nub tail wagging.
I smiled at her through the glass. This is what we do. It’s not a bad life, honestly.
Today, though, after fur friend lolled herself into a morning nap. I began to think about China and the cool mountain air. I pictured myself ambling through the damp forest, stopping occasionally for a bamboo snack.
Okay, friends. I don’t know where I’m going with this. I’ve been visiting my brother and have not been keeping up with my writing, so I am trying to get back on the horse. However, this piece of writing is a mule. It’s a hybrid and lacks fecundity. But here’s a picture of the plant that acted as inspiration.
I think I want to explore this idea some more. I was thinking about what it might be like to be living as an object in my house or anybody’s house. And then I wondered if it’s so different than our own experiences. And then I considered what my life might look like from the perspective of the plastic panda in my terrarium.
Writing is such a strange endeavor.