This was the first year that the cactus
didn’t flower profusely. I have always loved
paying close attention to this plant’s seasons, monitoring the first
appearances of new leaves during the days of long sunlight and watching for the
first signs of imminent blooming during the last months of the year. As was usual in early November, the first few
barely perceptible deep pink buds made their appearance at the tips of many of
the plant’s shiny green leaves. But, unlike in other years, most shriveled, and
only a handful of them grew in size and actually bloomed. I was chagrined. Even the ones that became flowers did so very
slowly, as if they had managed to beat the odds. I surmised that even though the plants that composed
my much-admired mega-plant appeared to be healthy, they were, in reality,
competing for space and nutrients and struggling to thrive.
So I set to work repotting this
morning. Newspapers spread on the kitchen floor, a new bag of rich potting soil
at the ready, pots of many different sizes nearby, I eased my mega-plant from
its familiar pot and teased apart the roots and branches of its component
plants, laying each separate plant on its side. There were losses: one graceful set of curving branches became completely
severed from its clump of roots, and more than a few dark, shiny leaves remained
on the newspaper when I lifted each plant to repot it. Within the hour, though, I had three large
Christmas cactus plants, each in its own large pot. Two of them now sit in decorative ceramic
planters atop that same red bookcase; the third is ensconced in a blue wicker
basket on the other side of the room.
My repotted Christmas cactus plants
are far from beautiful. Not one of them has
any grace of form, and one in particular reminds me of a partially plucked wild
turkey. Today, they appear as shocked survivors, and I suspect that some of
their leaves and branches will lose their will to live, wither, and fall away
in the weeks ahead. Still, I am certain
that their traumatic separations and re-establishments will ultimately be for the
good. Bereft and shaken as they are
today, these plants have been resettled in moist, ample, hearty earth in pots
with plenty of space for their roots to anchor and spread. I believe there will be flowers next
December. And if not next December, the
following December.
As I undertook this repotting
project, I realized the metaphorical significance of my actions. On the surface, I appear to be thriving: I communicate the exuberance and intensity of
those succulent, bountiful leaves. But I
am no longer blooming in my current pot.
It’s time for some personal repotting.
There will be dropped branches and leaves, and for a while, I will exude
the same awkward displacement as my newly repotted Christmas cactus plants. But eventually I will take hold. And eventually, I’ll flower.
