I used to be intensely focused on gardening and caring for plants, acquiring numerous houseplants during the pandemic. I was excited to watch new leaves unfurl, built shelves, installed plant lights, and observed their movement toward the sun. Over time, through life events, sickness, and new interests, my intense focus faded. I also began questioning the wisdom of keeping tropical plants indoors in temperate climates. While I maintained minimal care, many of the plants quietly died—and I was, frankly, relieved. Of eight types of peperomia I once owned, only one survived, and only because I gave it away.

Yet, many of my plants survived my neglect and seem to thrive despite it. Many of these are trailing varieties that have stretched themselves over meters. They grow silently across the room and often droop down into inconvenient spots, forcing me to pin their extending leaves to the wall or ceiling.

Watering the plants has become a chore; I no longer do it with enthusiasm, counting every new leaf or observing fresh growth. Repotting and rerooting are burdens now. But as I watch the greens quietly stretch and claim space across the room, I can’t help but admire that peaceful spirit of growth.

I change, my interests change, but the plants continue their slow, quiet, and minimalist growth—a quiet discipline that merely requires basic sustenance to persevere.