Leaves, Stones, Memories, Words

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Being surrounded by plants keeps me centered – mentally, emotionally, creatively. My yard consists largely of sun- and drought-tolerant plants – sage, Arizona honeysuckle, lantana, African daisies – nestled among jagged gravel, sandy earth and stone ledges. Inside, a house full of leafy tropicals fills my daily requirement for green life and black dirt. Plants simply make my house a home. And since I write at home, plants also make my office a relaxing workplace.

It’s true, and not just because I’m a nature nut (even though I am). It’s science.

Research from the University of Hyogo in Japan shows that having just one small potted plant on your desk helps reduce stress. The researchers analyzed employee behavior with and without a plant in their offices. The participants were directed to take a 3-minute rest while sitting at their desks when they felt fatigue. Those who had a plant were instructed to gaze intentionally at the plant during their break; some even took things a step further by watering or otherwise tending to the plant.

During the work breaks, researchers measured employee stress levels based on heart rates, oxygen and pulse levels. The results were consistent. Employee stress level “dropped considerably” if they had a plant.

I have four plants in my office and more than 30 throughout my home. Lucky me.

Gazing at and tending plants not only reduces my stress, it nurtures memories and provides inspiration for my #writing.

Gazing at and tending plants not only reduces my stress, it nurtures memories and provides inspiration for my writing. I recently repotted a peace lily that had outgrown its receptacle. As I removed it from the container and gently loosened the tightly packed roots with my finger, I noticed the rocks in the bottom of the empty container.

The first time I had repotted the lily, we were living in different house. I had collected a handful of smooth, colorful river rocks from the backyard to create drainage in the bottom of the pot. Without realizing it, I had brought a piece of that home with me to the new house when the plant moved with us. I had preserved more than one memory in the potted lily. I had preserved 20 years of memories from life in that old house.

After situating the lily in its new vessel, I watered it and fed it. Then I carried the river rocks out to the backyard and scattered them among the gumball-sized gravel. Blended together, they became my past, present and future – an indistinguishable jumble of red, gray, blue and beige hues, of smooth lumps and jagged edges. Just like my writing. Just like my life.

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