For many of us, January seems like the perfect month to undertake new projects. Among these, shedding those extra holiday pounds or getting more exercise often head the list. No more high-calorie fast-food lunches, we vow. Enough vegging out in front of the television, even that HD monster we got for half-price during the holiday sales. Other times we vow to tackle long overdue household chores like cleaning out the attic or basement, or maybe just some of those drawers we’ve been cramming stuff into for years. Who knows what we might find in there? Something valuable or dangerous? A leftover from a wild and crazy youth we should get rid of before someone else finds it? Other times, the beginning of a new year makes us think about expanding ourselves mentally: What better time to sign up for that course in mold identification?
Or so we tell ourselves…
But often little if any of this may happen. Oh, we may start out full of enthusiasm. But as those long cold days of winter plod on, we begin to fade.
I pondered this phenomenon as I watered my plants one late December morning and wondered if this occurs because, here in the northern hemisphere, nature has put many plants and animals to bed by the time the old year ends and the new begins. While she willingly maintains the status quo she shows little desire to commence any big projects, save to hunker down and roll with any punches the weather throws at her.
I find this same phenomenon also occurs in my houseplants, something I discovered by making some catastrophic mistakes in the past. The worst involved my ferns with whom I’ve always felt a special kinship. Prior to moving here, I shared a well-lighted living space with a variety of ferns including deersfoot, haresfoot, staghorn, bird’s nest, (Did you sense a theme there?) and also maiden hair plus what I then considered invincible Boston ferns. When I moved here, I decided to use Boston ferns instead of curtains in any windows that got enough sunlight to enable them to grow. And because I had more windows than ferns, that first winter I decided to split and repot the ones I had.
What a disaster that was! In spite of everything I tried, every plant died and left me feeling like a reckless Nephrolepis destroyer. Initially I tried to chalk up the debacle to some fluke, but logic quickly over-rode that explanation. Dividing and repotting plants comprises a significant change. Significant changes in living beings of all species create stresses of one sort or another. If and how the individual deals with those stresses depends on what else is going on at that time.
In the case of my mother ferns (Yes, that’s their official name which only made me feel worse!), they’d already adjusted to the decreasing daylight and the fluctuations in temperature and humidity that comprise the norm in an old house heated by wood during a northern New England winter. When I came along and dumped them out of their pots, cut them apart, repotted them in new soil and placed them in different locations, the transplants didn’t stand a chance.
The good news is that all those empty windows that winter served as a daily reminder to pay more attention to cues from the natural world when beginning new projects. At the same time my grandmother’s old German proverb—Aller anfang ist scher—reminded me that all beginnings are difficult. And this brings me back to my thoughts as I watered my plants that late December morning.
The spring following the Great Nephrolepis Massacre I bought two Boston ferns that I placed in the front windows of my living room. In horticultural terms, I was very nice to them and they rewarded me by growing full and lush. After several years, the spring came when it was time to divide and repot them. Because of the previous traumatic experience and despite all I’d learned, I worried that they wouldn’t make it. But eventually the day came when I noticed those first new shoots and realized that they had. Since then this cycle has repeated itself multiple times over the years. Even so, those days when I realize that the plants will be OK still delight me.
This past spring the sequence received a new twist: I gave some of the repotted plants away because I’d run out of sufficiently sunny windows for them. When I looked at the pathetic transplant with its three limp fronds I’d kept because I felt too embarrassed to give it away, the angst returned. Every day for weeks I looked at that sad little plant hanging in my office window. True, I knew the power of spring beginnings, but…
Here’s how that once-scrawny little plant looked last month when I watered it:
Given how many parallels exist between plants and animals (including humans) once you start looking for them, what does this tell us about engaging in new projects with our animals as a result of New Year’s resolutions? It suggests that it may require more effort than we think it will. And when it comes to resolving problematic animal behaviors, that can be a lot that more than usual even under the best of circumstances. So what to do?
Let’s return to my fern debacle for some clues. If I’d taken the time to prepare a physical environment that would provide my transplants with sufficient light and humidity, their chances of surviving would have been much higher. Nor did I give the mental environment much, if any thought. I didn’t plan ahead so I knew exactly what I was going to do how so I could accomplish the task with as little stress to them and me as possible. And while some horticulturists may blanch at the idea that plants experience something comparable to thought and emotion—including fear and pain—just as some biologists and behaviorists deny these occur in animals, I don’t consider myself among them. Nonetheless at the time of the unintended debacle, I was so busy thinking about how wonderful those ferns would look sometime in the future that I forgot about this element of successful change too.
Similarly if we focus on how great life will be when we don’t need to worry about the dog biting someone or the cat peeing on the couch instead of creating a physical and mental space that eliminates the stressors that support those problem behaviors in ourselves as well as our animals, our attempts to achieve the desired results most likely won’t succeed. Likewise, if we jump right in and start changing things without thinking through what we’re going to do, how, and why, our chances of success will take another hit. And if those cold, dark days of early winter elicit thoughts of hibernation instead of invigorating us, it may not take as much going wrong to cause us to give up during the post-holiday season either.
Because of this, setting the stage for our own and our animals’ success when tackling problem animal behaviors requires a special kind of mindfulness this time of year. Granted, doing so always demands that we learn to think outside the human-species box. That’s not easy to do under the best of circumstances let alone when those cold winds blow and the couch beckons. But as I know from my clients, it can be done. Better still, when we summon the wherewithal to do the job right under the worst of circumstances, it makes everything easier by comparison.
That’s not only good news for us. It’s good news for our animals, too.
If you have any comments regarding subject matter, favorite links, or anything you’d like to see discussed on or added to this site, please let me know at mm@mmilani.com.
For many of us, January seems like the perfect month to undertake new projects. Among these, shedding those extra holiday pounds or getting more exercise often head the list. No more high-calorie fast-food lunches, we vow. Enough vegging out in front of the television, even that HD monster we got for half-price during the holiday sales. Other times we vow to tackle long overdue household chores like cleaning out the attic or basement, or maybe just some of those drawers we’ve been cramming stuff into for years. Who knows what we might find in there? Something valuable or dangerous? A leftover from a wild and crazy youth we should get rid of before someone else finds it? Other times, the beginning of a new year makes us think about expanding ourselves mentally: What better time to sign up for that course in mold identification?
Or so we tell ourselves…
But often little if any of this may happen. Oh, we may start out full of enthusiasm. But as those long cold days of winter plod on, we begin to fade.
I pondered this phenomenon as I watered my plants one late December morning and wondered if this occurs because, here in the northern hemisphere, nature has put many plants and animals to bed by the time the old year ends and the new begins. While she willingly maintains the status quo she shows little desire to commence any big projects, save to hunker down and roll with any punches the weather throws at her.
I find this same phenomenon also occurs in my houseplants, something I discovered by making some catastrophic mistakes in the past. The worst involved my ferns with whom I’ve always felt a special kinship. Prior to moving here, I shared a well-lighted living space with a variety of ferns including deersfoot, haresfoot, staghorn, bird’s nest, (Did you sense a theme there?) and also maiden hair plus what I then considered invincible Boston ferns. When I moved here, I decided to use Boston ferns instead of curtains in any windows that got enough sunlight to enable them to grow. And because I had more windows than ferns, that first winter I decided to split and repot the ones I had.
What a disaster that was! In spite of everything I tried, every plant died and left me feeling like a reckless Nephrolepis destroyer. Initially I tried to chalk up the debacle to some fluke, but logic quickly over-rode that explanation. Dividing and repotting plants comprises a significant change. Significant changes in living beings of all species create stresses of one sort or another. If and how the individual deals with those stresses depends on what else is going on at that time.
In the case of my mother ferns (Yes, that’s their official name which only made me feel worse!), they’d already adjusted to the decreasing daylight and the fluctuations in temperature and humidity that comprise the norm in an old house heated by wood during a northern New England winter. When I came along and dumped them out of their pots, cut them apart, repotted them in new soil and placed them in different locations, the transplants didn’t stand a chance.
The good news is that all those empty windows that winter served as a daily reminder to pay more attention to cues from the natural world when beginning new projects. At the same time my grandmother’s old German proverb—Aller anfang ist scher—reminded me that all beginnings are difficult. And this brings me back to my thoughts as I watered my plants that late December morning.
The spring following the Great Nephrolepis Massacre I bought two Boston ferns that I placed in the front windows of my living room. In horticultural terms, I was very nice to them and they rewarded me by growing full and lush. After several years, the spring came when it was time to divide and repot them. Because of the previous traumatic experience and despite all I’d learned, I worried that they wouldn’t make it. But eventually the day came when I noticed those first new shoots and realized that they had. Since then this cycle has repeated itself multiple times over the years. Even so, those days when I realize that the plants will be OK still delight me.
This past spring the sequence received a new twist: I gave some of the repotted plants away because I’d run out of sufficiently sunny windows for them. When I looked at the pathetic transplant with its three limp fronds I’d kept because I felt too embarrassed to give it away, the angst returned. Every day for weeks I looked at that sad little plant hanging in my office window. True, I knew the power of spring beginnings, but…
Here’s how that once-scrawny little plant looked last month when I watered it:
Given how many parallels exist between plants and animals (including humans) once you start looking for them, what does this tell us about engaging in new projects with our animals as a result of New Year’s resolutions? It suggests that it may require more effort than we think it will. And when it comes to resolving problematic animal behaviors, that can be a lot that more than usual even under the best of circumstances. So what to do?
Let’s return to my fern debacle for some clues. If I’d taken the time to prepare a physical environment that would provide my transplants with sufficient light and humidity, their chances of surviving would have been much higher. Nor did I give the mental environment much, if any thought. I didn’t plan ahead so I knew exactly what I was going to do how so I could accomplish the task with as little stress to them and me as possible. And while some horticulturists may blanch at the idea that plants experience something comparable to thought and emotion—including fear and pain—just as some biologists and behaviorists deny these occur in animals, I don’t consider myself among them. Nonetheless at the time of the unintended debacle, I was so busy thinking about how wonderful those ferns would look sometime in the future that I forgot about this element of successful change too.
Similarly if we focus on how great life will be when we don’t need to worry about the dog biting someone or the cat peeing on the couch instead of creating a physical and mental space that eliminates the stressors that support those problem behaviors in ourselves as well as our animals, our attempts to achieve the desired results most likely won’t succeed. Likewise, if we jump right in and start changing things without thinking through what we’re going to do, how, and why, our chances of success will take another hit. And if those cold, dark days of early winter elicit thoughts of hibernation instead of invigorating us, it may not take as much going wrong to cause us to give up during the post-holiday season either.
Because of this, setting the stage for our own and our animals’ success when tackling problem animal behaviors requires a special kind of mindfulness this time of year. Granted, doing so always demands that we learn to think outside the human-species box. That’s not easy to do under the best of circumstances let alone when those cold winds blow and the couch beckons. But as I know from my clients, it can be done. Better still, when we summon the wherewithal to do the job right under the worst of circumstances, it makes everything easier by comparison.
That’s not only good news for us. It’s good news for our animals, too.
If you have any comments regarding subject matter, favorite links, or anything you’d like to see discussed on or added to this site, please let me know at mm@mmilani.com.