Monday, 18 June 2001 | Jade plant

I've probably had a total of three plants in my lifetime that have been under my sole supervision. I found out early on that I have trouble taking care of living things that don't remind me to feed them, things that just quietly die in a corner, wilting or drowning. Of course I have killer's guilt, and I feel even worse to know that something suffered because I simply forgot about it and later tried to overcompensate. As a result, I've opted to have few plants in my life or to have roommates who have (and take care of) plants.

Right now, however, is an exception. A couple months ago, Martin gave me a jade plant to keep in my office. It has mysteriously puffy leaves, and I was a little restless until one fell off and I was able to break it open and see inside. Since then no more leaves have fallen off, and I think my plant is relatively healthy, apart from last month's emergency trip home to receive a week of experienced care. But even though I've probably learned something about caring for a plant, I think that I've lost the point of the whole exercise. Sure, my job is to keep it alive, but I should also enjoy its aesthetic value, clean off its plump leaves and spot the formation of new ones, and arrange it so that it sits in the afternoon sunlight. Instead, worry drives me more than enjoyment, and I figure that it's only a matter of time before I watch another one die.