Plants pursue a never-ending quest for nourishment¹（食物，营养品） of the liquid and solar variety. Clearly, the very essence of life. But what can our obsession²（痴迷，困扰） with plants teach us about our own personal journeys?

My aunts, mom and grandma always talk about their plants when they get together. They trade cuttings, smuggling³ them over state lines to propagate（繁殖，增殖） at home. They discuss their plants like children or pets. They share tips. Compare progress.

We turn plants into sentimental⁴（感伤的） objects as we do with books and art, but with plants it’s different because they’re alive. They grow and change. You see photographs of your former apartment, and there’s that peace lily（百合花） , half its present size. It’s like looking at old family pictures: “Look how little you used to be!” Plants have a history and a life. That’s why they’re so hard to give up, even when you don’t love them anymore, even when you don’t have room for them. What are you supposed to do, just let them die? Impossible.

When I had to move everything out of my house recently, I realized there were more little plants than I was willing to find places for in my new cramped⁵（狭窄的，难懂的） quarters. I thought, it’s silly to be sentimental about these plants. I can replace them later if I want. Yet I just couldn’t give up the succulent（多汁的，多水分的） I kept alive during my first year of teaching.

It sat on top of a microwave, in a tiny, dark, cold office space that was really a storage closet with a window. During the times I thought I might lose my mind, I watched the plant’s health. It refused to wither⁶. It stood hardy⁷ and strong, and occasionally sprung a tender new leaf. Sometimes I would forget to water it or take it home during vacations, but it withstood this neglect and stubbornly（顽固地，倔强地） lived on. This buoyed⁸（支撑，鼓励） my spirit more than chocolate or pats on the back.

Our adopted foliage⁹（植物，叶子） can serve as a sort of bellwether¹⁰（前导，领导者） for our lives. Most of us have gone through periods where we let the phone ring, the dishes pile up, and the houseplants shrivel（枯萎，褶皱） . Eventually, the pile of brittle¹¹（易碎的，脆弱的） leaves collecting beneath the ficus（无花果属） forces us to assess the state of our lives.

Of course, because we have sentimentalized our plants, it’s tempting¹² to read their lives for clues to our own. Once, when a relationship was dying, my African violet exploded with unseasonable purple flowers. Maybe, I thought, there’s hope. There was—for the violet.

My stepmom visits a particular hemlock¹³（铁杉） in a park near her home every New Year’s Day. She walks circles around its trunk, one hand on the bark, releasing regrets from the old year and planning for the new one. Her own history and life is now intertwined with the hemlock’s, as year after year, the tree receives her hopes and ushers¹⁴（招待，引导） them forth¹⁵ with fresh oxygen. “Here you go,” it says. “Here’s some more life.”