little mysteries that make life worth living Tweet

I received this begonia plant this time last year, or so. Too late to put it outside and, if anyone had cared to ask what I think, quite a fussy creature to handle. I took it home nevertheless, and proceeded to pot it majestically, while having no hope for its life. I have no conservatory, so it lived for months and months in our dark and warm lounge, as I will not give in to the English tradition of freezing one's bones over winter. Or should I say conserving?



By the time I was reminded it might like to go out, it was summer already, if we can call that the wet season that's just ended. The plant is happy, growing, and as majestic as it gets. While showing no sign of blooms, which one would imagine equally impressive, it is by all means thriving, in a pot with no hole—a repurposed vase. Soon I'll have to take the monster back in, and ideally take cuttings, if I can be arsed.

But for now I'm enjoying its foliage, and will to live, while having no understanding why it's all going so well. And that is comforting, in strange ways.