We’re giving hugs again, gathering around tables with friends, and some people are even planning summer travels. We are “learning to human again.”
I purchased my little aloe plant in fall 2020, when COVID cases were on the rise in the U.S. Tending to my house plants distracted me from the scariness. Months later, I can’t help but smile every time this scrawny pandemic plant catches my eye. He is thriving but on his own terms. This aloe refuses to grow straight. I have gently tried to rectify this countless times. Quietly, yet firmly I have encouraged him to “Stand tall. Reach for the light.”
But this charming aloe is a pandemic plant. He is comfortable hanging over the edge of his terra cotta home. Good posture doesn’t matter to him. He languishes. He is twisted and a little gnarly. I have come to admire his commitment to growing crookedly.
I, too, have carved a twisty path in the last year. Though I have not lost any loved ones, I have dealt with disenfranchised grief—the unnamable sadness that accumulates with continued disappointment and “small” losses. Travel, weddings, family meals. I have felt guilty for feeling sad. What business do I have grieving when I’ve suffered so little compared to others?
As I “learn to human” again, I like to think that my aloe is “learning to plant” again. I have an affinity for his hunched nature. Standing tall is not necessarily easy. Getting out into the world after more than a year of isolation is odd. We are both off-kilter right now, but as the time is right, we are branching out.
I have talked with friends about venturing forth again. I believe the idea of entering society again is almost as worrisome as being told in 2020 that I needed to withdraw from society.