Ficus Ginseng and Re-Birth
A day before the world shut down, I moved into a space I’ve been dreaming about for years. It was airy, roomy, and in a neighbourhood I’ve always loved. To celebrate, I picked up a new plant: the Ficus Ginseng. I think I picked this plant because of its strong foundation—it has a thick wooden trunk that curves around creating a unique shape that you could very well take to a psychologist’s office to ask patients what they see. The Ficus I picked looked like two people embracing, one coming up from behind the other, like a lover snuggling in when you’re preparing dinner. Intimate and warm.
Off of its thick, character filled trunk (two to be exact), grow much thinner branches that house almond-shaped green leaves. These are the leaves that people love to prune, an ancient practice, to create balance and harmony for the plant (we will discuss this in another chapter). The Ficus likes to be groomed and can even grow when its feet are wet. It’s not a fan of dry soil and it craves humidity because of the climate found in Southeast Asia, its origin.
But I didn’t even get a chance to give it a name before the first leaf fell, then the second, and third. One by one I watched each leaf drop as I Googled, daily, seeking answers to prevent the big D. (That’s ‘Death’, in this case). Until, one day, the last leaf fell. I was dumbfounded. I got completely owned by this plant, it put my ego in check. There it was, with its thick trunk and tiny branches naked and alone. I felt the same. I traced my fingertip around the branches desperately seeking a sign of life. But there was none.
Witnessing a new plant die so quickly was magnified by the hanging doom we felt - and were reminded of - around the world. “This is the marking of an apocalypse,” I thought. I imagined all of the world’s plants dying within days of one another. Obviously the next step would be my new floors splitting open to reveal lava, and eventually a path straight to hell.
Once I caught my imagination by its tail and took a deep breath, I decided to really get mad at the true culprit in the situation--IKEA. I picked up the Ficus at the end of a quick IKEA run. I know you are probably rolling your eyes right now thinking, “well of course it died, you bought it from IKEA.” But I will rebut this to inform you that I have several plants (and pieces of furniture) that have been with me for a good long time that have been picked up from the Swedes.
I then decided to blame it on my new, dream loft--there must not be enough natural light. My imagination started to run away with itself again: this is the demise of my plant kingdom and therefore me and this book. It’s all a sham. I stared out the window into the giant condominium that was blocking the most perfect south-facing light for my dream home. “Capitalism be damned,” I thought.
It’s a wonder how you can hold life in one hand at one moment, and the next you’re cupping death with two hands wondering what led you here. And then a whisper from deep within my mind: “this is the way to new life.” Death, an ending, comes with unpredictable pain that bolts through you. I have learned by now that when we try to escape pain it bubbles up in other ways: binge eating, loneliness, alcohol abuse, to name a few common ones. The only way through the pain is to spend time in it and embrace it. This is not a novel idea, hence the many stages of grief.
Grief is like a wild beast that needs to be tamed and put back in its cage. If you don’t tame it - that is accept it - it will continue to run wild, creating havoc in your life. Taming this beast requires acceptance, which is why this is the last step of the grieving process. This is also why it’s the hardest part--but as soon as you accept the ugly, hairy, wild beast for all its horns and deformations, it’ll soften, tire, and go into the cage for a slumber. We can grieve many things--obviously, loved ones come to mind right away (a deep, complex pain), but also friendship break-ups, retired dreams, societal events (global warming, the murdering of black lives, child trafficking, the global pandemic, for example), a pet’s passing, job losses, family splits, and apparently, a plant dying (what a privilege). The list is long and chances are you have already mourned more than one of these categories to various degrees.
Mourn is an interesting word, not by the definition but how it sounds and the visual that comes up: a word that suggests a pulling to your knees, a humbling or a bowing of some kind to a force much greater than you, so that all you can really do is succumb to deep sorrow. Once you weathered the storm of sorrow, anger, denial, guilt, depression… you come out whole, and possibly different, there is a new beginning. In recent years of therapy I learned of the Death Doula or Death Midwife, someone who specializes in the dying and grieving process, from the beginning of the end to the other side of grief: the rebirth.
In yogic teachings we learned the importance of stillness. Stillness as a way to process your emotions and thoughts; stillness as a way to go deep down and connect to your intuition; and stillness as a way to move through pain. In the western world we tend to speed up when we feel pain or sadness--we get busier, filling our calendars with meetings, workouts, and dinners that drag on or end up in alcoholic obliteration for a good time. We are very good at hustling away from ourselves. But the sprint away from being angry at X and sad at Y, will only get you to a more tired place because you’ve been running all over town carrying all of your emotional baggage pretending like it fits into your favourite purse.
And so, I decided to meditate on the Ficus, simply by sitting it in front of me and observing and accepting its death and my defeat. While meditating on the plant, I recognized its barrenness, then I noticed the negative space between each empty branch, I followed each branch to the trunk with my eyes, the trunk to the soil. I let my breath carry me through the little tree’s anatomy.
I am not sure how long I was in a trance, but what pulled me out of it was my right index finger plunging itself into the soil. I pulled it out and looked at its many elements, it looked healthy. I touched the base of the trunk, it felt healthy. My gut instinct, rooted deep within me, told me that the plant was still alive. Although it had absolutely no foliage, I could sense there was still energy in it. I still had no idea what happened or why it reacted in such an extreme manner to my new home, but I knew that I wasn’t going to give up on it.
I remembered a theory I learned about in one of writer James Clear’s newsletters: “Accumulative Advantage” and the 1% rule. It’s about how small, consistent effort can catapult you to success. Clear recounted an experiment that was conducted on plants, where one plant was given a little bit of water daily, and another plant was given the full amount of water weekly. The end result was that the plant given small amounts of water daily grew faster. Wild, isn’t it.
I decided I was going to apply this method to the Ficus. What did I have to lose at this point? I figured it would also give me an opportunity to give it words of encouragement every day.
And so, I placed the plant back in its spot, washed my hands, and poured a small amount of water into a watering can. I watered the plant 1/5th of what I would have normally given it.
I wish I counted how long I continued my daily routine of gently, cautiously, watering the Ginseng but I had a pandemic to get through. I can tell you it was days that turned into weeks. Uncertainty and fear continued to grow in the world, but I kept watering even though there was no visible effect.
And then, one day, I noticed a tiny green dot at the top of the trunk, right where the branches stemmed from. It was a speckle of green hope. A growth so tiny I was afraid if I breathed on it, it would blow away. I kept watering. More green speckles appeared in the same area of the plant. The branches remained bare, but below them, at their base, grew new life. Some would call this science, I refer to it as a miracle. The plant had been reborn.
Within the month, the green dots grew to be newborn leaves. The leaves grew in a strange way, unrecognizable from the previous foliage of the plant; the branches, which they were supposed to grow on, remained completely untouched. As a result, the tree which once looked like a couple spooning over the kitchen sink, now looks like a baby fawn with tiny antlers and green fur. Still cute.
With a little persistence and faith the loss of leaves brought forth a new way of being for the plant.
The space between death and rebirth is filled with uncertainty and pain. Although I do not remember it, I imagine it is an unbelievably uncomfortable process to be born. We experience this discomfort continuously in life as old versions of ourselves die off and we must go through uncertainty and pain to be born into a new way of being. This is growth. It is inevitable and is much easier to move through when it is embraced.
Turns out my Ficus came along at exactly the right time: through loss we discover who we can become. Not a bad reminder during a pandemic, when we’re faced with physical loss and death but also the loss of former normality. Now, I’m trying to apply the same lesson to my (almost) post-pandemic reality: gently, cautiously moving out into the world again with persistence and a bit of faith that rebirth is not only possible but probable throughout life.
Reflection Prompts
Ponder these in your head, write it out, or use these questions to deepen your conversation with a friend:
Make a list of ways you have been re-born throughout your lifetime to date.
If you could invite a change into your life, what would it be?
Meditate on a plant by simply sitting and observing it, without judgement or following along with your breath. I also enjoy these guided meditations (featuring plants!) by yoga teacher Angelica Rao.
Words of Kindness
Pick whichever kindness phrase speaks to you, or all three, or use them to write your own.
I welcome change into my life.
I trust my process.
I am at peace.