I was going through a difficult time, so I bought a plant and named it after myself. I heard somewhere that every time you water the plant, you’re affirming good care for yourself. When I got home, I put the plant in my kitchen where there was plenty of sunlight.

A friend came to visit a few days later. She was studying psychology and always talked about what she was learning.

Today she was talking about relationships. Specifically, toxic dynamics in relationships. She said we repeat unhealthy dynamics with others until we learn the lesson we need to learn so we can break the cycle.

My friend had taken to calling it “The Sisyphus Paradigm” in honor of the Greek God who was punished by being forced to roll a boulder up a hill only to have it roll back down.

“What did Sisyphus need to learn?” I asked her.

“Stop pushing,” she said.

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I’ve started thinking about the first human being who ever died. However long ago that was and however it happened. But what I’m really thinking about is the other human beings who knew that first human being. And what that must have been like. The first human experience of death. Of loss. Of the end. Of finality.

Did they think that first human was gone forever? Did they have any hope that first human might come back? Did they know anything for sure? Did it take all this just to discover grief?

I asked my friend these questions the next time she visited.

“They knew,” she said, nodding her head.

“How can you be so sure?”

“I said they knew. I didn’t say anything about what they wanted to believe.”

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A few years ago, I went to Croatia with someone who is no longer in my life. On the last day, I took a rock from the beach to remember our trip. The rock was gray and smooth and felt like someone had spent a thousand years sanding it down.

And now, whenever I see that rock on my dresser, I feel bad for taking it. If not for me, that rock would still be on the beach. Warmed by the sun and cooled by the sea. Doing whatever a rock is supposed to do on the beach.

I told my friend about the rock the next time she visited.

“The rock doesn’t care. You know that, right?” she said.

“Of course I know the rock doesn’t care.”

“So, what’s the problem?”

“I care.”

“Well, I can’t help you with that. I’m not sure anyone can.”

“I know,” I said, as I ran my fingers over the rock.

My friend changed the subject. She mentioned an article that theorized we spend nearly a third of our lives thinking about people we love who will never love us back.

“It made me sad until the very end when the author argued that at least it’s time we spend being optimistic.”

“Oh?” I said.

“I think it means that the act of hoping keeps us from being completely lost.”

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Even with regular watering and plenty of sunlight, my plant wasn’t doing well. Some of the leaves had turned brown and were shriveling up. I tried adding fertilizer to the soil. Less water. More water. Switching windows. Nothing worked.

I went back to the store I bought it from. I told the man behind the counter about the brown leaves and he asked what kind of plant it was. I couldn’t remember its name so I just pointed to the store’s display.

“Oh, the Bromeliad,” he said. “It may be getting too much sun. Try moving it away from the window. You should also cut off the dead leaves so the nutrients go to the healthy ones.”

Later that night, I moved the plant from the window and cut the dead leaves.

I told myself that some things aren’t meant for sunlight. And when it comes to throwing away the dead pieces, I suppose that’s an act of care as well.

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