Blue Screen, Green Eyes

By: Jasmine Nihmey Vasdi

I heard recently in a podcast that in order to take breaks from screens, the podcaster turns toward her plants and just basks in their oxygenating glory until her eyes have semi-healed themselves from the lasering blue light. Being one to hop onto any advice that encourages communing with plants, when my mid-afternoon backache kicked in, I stretched in a manner resembling my cat, who promptly joined in on the rarity of movement during a day of remote work, and turned towards my plants.

Collected mainly in a fit of first lockdown mania, then promptly left in the weird Amsterdam drought of August, when most of Europe pretended Covid had not happened and went south, all of us elbowing each other for space. My plants have been slowly hibernating and recuperating since. Grazing what water they need and then spitting the rest out onto the floor. Recently, one rubber fig, Lou, dropped all but two leaves in direct protest of being moved beside a taller rubber fig, Bean. Meanwhile, all the vines literally grew into a scared scrum of tangled leaves when snow suddenly arrived a few weeks ago. Then when the sun decided to switch up average midwinter weather, they began sweating each other off. Rubbing my eyes slightly, I sighed back towards my laptop, letting my fingers hover about the keyboard, determined to send off a few more emails. However, my gaze rose above the screen and I found myself tickled by the sway of the philodendrons in the breeze coming from the open window.

I thought about how the plants keep each other company and look out for one another. My monstera, Judy, will gladly fill any open space given to her as quickly as she can but when we brought home Banana, an abandoned ficus found beside the trash bins, Judy literally started to grow her leaves into the holes of other leaves so as to give Banana the space to recuperate from the abandonment of their last home. The bushel of bay leaves I swiped (with permission from the tree) last summer and hung in the kitchen has dried in a circular manner so it can tickle the rosemary hung slightly above.

One of the many plants, and quite possibly my favourite, although I shouldn't pick favourites, is the Venus Fly Trap. Upon buying her, I was scared, never having owned a carnivorous plant, thinking that they were quite high maintenance. I was not wrong. I listen to her waving hands as she demands water, or a mosquito, or more sun. Her phoenix-like capabilities amaze me, she has died into brown crisps then slowly continued to scream green through hungry rebirths, all of three times. I placed a blooming hyacinth beside her and as it flowered, it opened towards her. Either a deep bow of respect or recently hired to direct buzzing traffic into the open mouths of Venus. Or both.

I think about this communication further as I try to order a cappuccino at my favourite café, through the mask, fogging up my glasses, the plexiglass partition blurring my words and accompanying smize. My eyes matching the barista's with that frustrated sadness many of us are experiencing these days. On my way out, with a slightly wrong but still delicious warm drink, I look at the basil on display, pointing customers in the direction of the café. I reach out to stroke one of the leaves, but my mind remembers the pandemic. I pull my hand back into my pocket and finger my headphones debating whether to enter my bubble. Instead, I cup my drink with both hands and turn on my heel back towards my apartment, leaning into the foreign conversations of the promenade trees, muttering into the wind.