I’ve had a plant on the windowsill of my office for a number of years. It grew from a cutting of a plant in the office of one of my colleagues.
If this were a course titled The Care of Plants, I’d get a D. I ignore the plant for a week or more, then I water it for several days running. I come in my office some days, maybe a day after I watered it, maybe a week, and drench it until I’m mopping up water from the windowsill. Sometimes I hack at it (“pruning” would suggest I actually know what I’m doing) when it seems like it needs it (i.e., when my friend Lisa who has the office next door walks by and says “that plant could use some pruning”). You get the idea.
Yet, somehow, the plant survives. And not only survives, but blossoms and does so with some frequency. There is no rhyme or reason to when it does; it is so completely random that I could never develop any expectation about when the burst of orange will appear. Sometimes in July, sometimes in November, and sometimes, as today, at the beginning of March.
I’ll let you interpret it as you will. For me, there is a lesson of life, and of surprise, and of hope here.