Plant Spa

Going online to figure out what ails a houseplant can be dispiriting. A.I.’s favorite diagnosis is underwatering—unless it’s overwatering. Lack of light is a close third, followed by lack of fertilizer, or too much of it, or the wrong kind. So when my big fiddle leaf ficus, in whom I am well pleased, developed some tiny brown spots on its leaves, I didn’t know what to do. But when I came across an article that mentioned dust, which occludes the pores on the surface of the leaves and makes it hard for the plant to breathe, I decided the ficus needed wiping.

I got a bowl of water and a rag, set the ficus on a chair, and went to work, starting with the bottom leaves and proceeding upwards. BTW, fiddle leaf ficus is a misnomer, as is the scientific name, ficus lyrata, since the leaves look neither like a fiddle nor a lyre, but more like a bouzouki. I was determined not to skip a single leaf, but soon it became hard to tell which leaves I had wiped and which I hadn’t. Not only did the moisture evaporate quickly, but there were four separate stems in the pot, each with tightly spaced leaves which neatly interleaved with the ones on the other stems. But I kept on, encouraged by the sight of the water turning cloudy, my every gesture accompanied by the rustling of those stiff, parchment-like leaves.

And as I wiped the leaves and wrung out the rag I remembered one morning during my first week in an American school. There was a philodendron on the windowsill of our homeroom (the concept of homeroom was incomprehensible to me), and Sister Dominica had put Roxanne in charge of it. This meant not only watering the plant, but also dusting it, which Roxanne did every Monday.

I had hardly ever even seen a houseplant, let alone one being dusted—in my childhood, plants, like pets, lived outside and flourished in the mild Mediterranean climate. But what struck me most was the aura of self-importance that emanated from Roxanne as she stood to do her job. She approached the plant slowly and ceremoniously, pursed her lips, and took her time wiping both sides of every leaf.

At the time, I was in awe of my female classmates—I admired their dark red lipstick, the little scarves knotted around their necks, their pencil skirts, and their bobby socks. I envied their command of English and their mature and sophisticated air. But I did not envy Roxanne, despite her outfit and her makeup. I thought it was ridiculous to take the plant dusting, and herself, so seriously. And sitting there in my childish pinafore, with pimples on my cheeks and no lipstick, for a change I felt pleased to be me and not Roxanne.

But back to the ficus. After what seemed like hours of wiping, I reached the top leaves. I got a ruler and measured them: 14 1/2″ long by 9 1/2″ at their widest. The veins on their undersides were thick as chopsticks. These huge young leaves were shiny and healthy looking, but I wiped them anyway.

Having replaced the ficus by its window, it occurred to me that the yucca, which is almost as tall as the ficus, might also need wiping. I filled the bowl with clean water and started on the yucca. The “interleaving” was even worse here, since the yucca has a lot more leaves than the ficus. And yucca leaves are sharp as two-edged swords, so I had to be careful not to get cuts on my hands.

I finished the yucca without injury and quit for the day. The jade and the sansevieria would have to wait. If you’re wondering why all my plants have thick, leathery, or succulent leaves, it’s because Telemann will eat and kill anything more delicate. Much as I would like to fill the house with elegant palms and frothy ferns, they wouldn’t stand a chance against the cat, so I abstain. As you may have noticed, life is full of compromises.