In 1967, when I worked at the Tuberculosis and Respiratory Disease Association of Los Angeles County, Evelyn Yamamoto, a co-worker, gave me two ti plants she brought from her mother’s garden in Honolulu. I had admired her pot-luck offering called MahiMahi, a fish dish from the Islands served wrapped in ti leaves, sort of like little tamales. Grateful, I potted each plant in in its own ceramic pot; one chrome yellow, the other electric chartreuse green.
I named the plants Arthur and Mergatroid.
From 1967 to 1972, I lived in ten different places. Sweet Brother Melton helped me with most of those moves. The same six pieces of furniture: dresser, desk, dining room table, a couple of board and brick book cases, and an iron frame with orange canvas butterfly chair. The mattress on the floor and Madras cloth spread didn’t count as furniture. Still Brother Mel helped with it all. Arthur and Mergatroid always rode up front on the floor of my ’54 Chevy BelAire.
In 1976, when I was a new mama and totally overwhelmed, I put all the neglected-looking plants outside, one at a time, to fend for themselves. (A & M had many cousins by then.) I was a coward, and couldn't bear to watch their demise. Over time, all but the hardiest philodendrons died from frost or heat.
Busy as I was with being an all-night diner to this lovely being who came through my husband and me to grace the world, I didn’t have time, or as that same lovely grown-up daughter calls, “the bandwidth” for grieving the death of the plants. I was too involved with new life.
Amidst all the joy, awe, and exhaustion of being a new mom, I noted that A & M’s shriveling in the brutal San Fernando Valley sun marked the end of an era. They were with me for over ten years. Life with me had been a moving experience for them. When they were my best and constant living companions they thrived. Shift happened. Priorities changed. I was always grateful for their cheery presence, even when my taste for neon-colored pots, so in vogue in the 1960s, waned.
About the time our second daughter was in first grade, I had a curious experience that made me want to learn about hands on healing. My Grammy Florence Stern had triple bi-pass surgery at age ninety-one. I was there when she was in recovery and the anesthesia was wearing off. When my hands were on her, the heart monitor showed an even and regular rhythm. When my hands were off, the graph spiked and dipped irregularly. I wanted to know how touch supported coherence.
Thus began a very long investigation (1985 to 2014) through self-assigned studies of various healing modalities - from massage, Polarity, and Reiki to shamanic healing, craniosacral therapy and Somatic Experiencing. After my last Advanced training in Bodynamics, and a move from L.A. to Oakland in 2014, I decided to bring my bodywork shingle inside and virtually retire. We came north to be hands-on grandparents, and I've been writing about some of those healing adventures.
Back in 1999 I attended a post grad craniosacral workshop with Franklyn and Maura Sills on Maui. It was held at a retreat center with glorious gardens at the base of Mount Haleakala. There were so many varieties of ti plants I never knew existed! I was thrilled to see their familiar shiny narrow sword-like leaves. One morning on my early walk about the property, a kindly gardener who was tending the organic vegetable garden caught me talking to the ti plants.
Y’interested in those, eh?
Yah. They bring back memories of a couple I had for ten years.
Tell you what. The day you leave here, I’ll package some up for ya.
Oh, no. I couldn’t ask you to go to so much trouble!
No trouble at all. They’re hardy, they are. They’ll be fine in your suitcase ‘till you get back to L.A.
He showed me which end was up, and how to get them going. True to his word, the day I left he gave me a plastic bag with seven beige colored sticks ranging in diameter between one half inch and an inch.
Once home, I followed his directions. Sure enough, all seven sticks sprouted roots and leaves. Some had red or variegated red and green leaves. Others were glossy as emeralds. Some I gave away; sadly, some bit the dust of Los Angeles’ desert clime, when I was working sixty hour weeks with clients and teaching five yoga classes a week.
The sole surviving ti plant lives here in Oakland with us, and seems to love her new home as much as Mark and I do. She's perched under a drawing of our granddaughter which was rendered from a photograph taken the day she was born. Steve Tanaka, husband to Amy who took over teaching a couple of the yoga classes in L.A., has quite a fine eye for capturing emotionally accurate and finely rendered portraits. The granddaughter just turned seven and has a name; the ti plant is seventeen and is nameless. Both are thriving and for that, I am truly and fiercely grateful.
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