How to Motivate Your Plants

Ever talk to your plants? I chat with the schefflera in the corner of my living room occasionally, but outdoors I restrict myself to walking around muttering. Naturally, I swear at weeds, but who doesn't? And I do try to keep it down because the neighbours are a little sensitive.

Now Edgar, the fellow next door, is serious about this plant communication as he calls it. It all began on a winter evening a couple of years back. He was up late nursing a sick philodendron (and I suspect a large scotch). Said he'd been chatting to the plant a bit — swears it helps.

He eventually fell asleep, as he usually does. When he awoke, it was around 2 a.m. and the TV was still playing. He was in a kind of middle of the night stupor, trying to decide whether to go to bed or finish the night on the couch, when the show on TV caught his attention. It was one of those self-improvement programs. The host was a motivational speaker, babbling on about positive thinking and how to motivate growth.

When Edgar heard the words “motivating growth,” he perked up. He poured himself another drink while he thought about what the fellah was saying. It made a lot of sense. Edgar didn't particularly want to become a motivational speaker, but it occurred to him that if the techniques being described could motivate people to grow, they might work on other things — like plants.

Well, thanks to the guy on TV, the scotch, and the philodendron coming out of intensive care, Edgar became a believer — and a few hundred dollars poorer. He whipped out his credit card, grabbed the phone and ordered the whole package of books, tapes, and videos. Everything he'd need to change the world, or at least his small part of it.

Edgar spent the rest of the winter practicing. He practiced and practiced until he knew everything possible about motivational speaking, body language, vocal techniques, and eye contact — everything he'd need to rouse an audience to action.

He practiced on his dog (ignored him), he practiced on his teenage boys (hopeless failure), and he practiced on the mailman (junk mail increased). He even tried motivating his wife (I understand she went to stay with her sister for a while). But when he practiced on the philodendron — success. Surprisingly, it flourished.

By spring, Edgar was ready. I watched as each morning at dawn he went down into his vegetable garden to give the young plants the full benefit of his new skills. Edgar had a captive audience. He flipped over an old half-barrel planter to use as a podium and put on an amazing performance, just like the fellah on TV.

He'd jump off the barrel and run out into his audience. Next, he was on his knees, beseeching them like a TV preacher. Up and down the rows he went, cajoling, encouraging, cheering them on, making eye contact with every single plant — and of course, motivating: "Yes, you can do it carrots, just a little longer! Come on sprouts, sprout! Beans, be all you can be!"  Talk about flowery speech! And yet it was a success.

Of course, just like any other seminar, those paying the most attention gained the most benefit. Judging by the state of his lawn, the weeds must have been hanging on his every word. But Edgar swears it was a success. I'm not so sure. I was surprised how well the cabbages did, and they might have grown bigger if he'd been able to keep it up all summer, but by June the neighbours were being difficult again — they called the cops.

 Edgar is still practising his oratorical skills — they don't seem to help much; he still has trouble getting served in the coffee shop. He's still watching late night TV too. He tells me there's this woman with a Chia pet that she stands inside a pyramid surrounded with rare crystals — swears she gets three crops a week. It seems expensive though. I think I'll stick to spreading it on real thick — compost, that is.