At midnight, in a gentle rain, I snipped cuttings from the giant geranium in my old front yard. Inside the house, I gave an overgrown pathos a haircut. A few snips from a giant jade plant, bits that will never be missed.
Back at the house where I'm staying, I placed the cuttings carefully in water, the jars a small jumble of sizes and shapes, some with labels on. Anything looks beautiful with a plant in it. I placed the jars on a small wooden book shelf--the lightweight, fold-out kind I've loved since college. This particular shelf holds classic vegetarian cookbooks, not my copies, but many that I own.
There's something about this setup that reminds me of who I am, what I love. What I've always loved: The unexpected contrast of green leaves and flowers in a glass jar with a scrappy old label. The simple shelving I can carry by myself if I have to. Vegetarian cookbooks. The whole thing has a homey, earthy, Laurel's Kitchen vibe that soothes me. A wood stove would complete the image--maybe topped by a Dutch oven full of soup or stew. Maybe the Turkish Spinach and Lentil from Sundays at Moosewood, yes? Loaves of bread and jars of homemade yogurt off to the side, rising and fermenting in the warmth, each according to its preference.
Now the plants will grow new roots, and so will I. One pot of stew, one loaf of bread, one jumble-jarred batch of flowers or yogurt at a time.