🪴 Watering the Indoor Houseplants 🌿 A Calm, Cozy Routine Story for Slow Living #relaxingpodcast

0:02 Welcome to The Slow Life. I'm Jennifer Vino and I create, narrate and design the soundscape of this village of cosy stories to relax and unwind. Each week I share an original story. Read 2 times so you can relax even more during the second reading. I also create micro experiences inspired by the stories you hear. These are short, gentle reading moments designed to help you slow down and rest in the village for as long as you like.

0:46 They're available now to enjoy on screen or on paper, individually or in small bundles through the slow life.ca under the Shop tab. Let's settle in with some easy breathing at your own pace. With each inhale, let fresh air fill the space around your heart. With each exhale, feel the calm air spread through your body and flow out through your arms and legs, gently in through your heart. Gently out through your body, in through your heart, out through your body.

1:45 And now let's begin. This story is called Watering the Indoor House Plants and it's about a caring habit, staying present and reign. As a reminder, I found something close to a rhythm now. Watering day, landing on Sunday mornings just after breakfast when the hosts is still quiet. It isn't a strict rule, but it happens often enough that I don't need to think about it anymore.

2:30 The reminder comes naturally, usually when I wander through my rooms with tea. Today, the reminder arrives with the sound of rain tapping steadily against the glass. The kettle has already been emptied into my mug. Bobby asked if the tea still hot as I come back into the kitchen. I set it down on the counter, then reached under the sink for the watering can I keep tucked to one side. I fill it slowly, adjusting the tap so the water runs gently instead of splashing around the edge.

3:18 The sound is steady as it rises, covering the rain for the moment. When it's nearly full, I turn it off and hold it by the handle and the long spout to keep it steady, enjoying the weight of it. I always start in the same place. Three plants near the front window of the living room. Sid on a low bookshelf, arranged with two to one side and the larger one on its own to the right. I lift the first pot just enough to feel its weight.

4:01 It's not completely dry, but dry enough. I tilt the watering can, letting the stream fall slowly onto the soil instead of directly against the stems. The surface darkens and stages the water soaking in rather than pooling. I wait between pores, giving it time to drink. This one was a gift brought over in a paper bag, the rim of the pot wrapped in tissue that had come loose by the time it reached my hands.

4:43 I remember moving the two smaller plants together to make room for it, Unsure if it would stay in this spot or be moved if it didn't thrive here. The leaves were thinner than slightly uneven. Now they're fuller, spreading outward, letting me know it likes the place I chose for it. I rotate the pod a few inches to even note its lean toward the sun. The next one had nearly been lost once before. I had gotten into the habit of watering on a regular day. The soil had pulled away from the edge of the pot, but I had missed it in my sporadic watering schedule. I then over corrected by giving it too much for a few days, but since then I've learned how to care for it. I tip the watering can again, slower this time, letting the water reach deeper.

5:53 A small amount collects in the saucer beneath, and I leave it there for now, knowing it will be absorbed. I brush one of the leaves between my fingers before turning it a bit. The rain has picked up. Tapping more firmly now, filling the space without overwhelming it. I moved to the taller plant near the corner. This one I chose myself on a day that hadn't seemed important at the time. I had gone out for something else, something practical, and came back with it balanced awkwardly in the back seat, one hand reaching behind me at every stop to keep it from tipping.

6:47 It may have felt like an unnecessary purchase then, but now it anchors the room. I check it with my fingers before watering, pressing just below the surface. It's still slightly damp, so I add only a small amount circling the odor edge of the soil. It took time for me to learn that not everything needs the same attention. I stand, shifting the watering can to my other hand, and take a few steps back to look at the arrangement as a whole.

7:30 It isn't perfectly even. Some leaves lean further than others, so I rotate this one too. It works and I move on. In the bedroom, the air is cooler. The window is open just enough to let in the sound of the rain, but not the wetness of it, a faint current of fresh air moving through the space. There are fewer plants in here. One of them is newer, its leaves still adjusting to the place where it sits.

8:11 I give it less than I think it might need, knowing that overwatering can be worse than letting it dry out for a while. I move out to my reading nook at the end of the hallway. A handful of tiny pots sit on bookshelves and window sills. I lift them carefully, knowing their weights. Now, at each level of dryness, I add small amounts of water, smiling with pride at the consistency of care I've learned to give them. Their story started last fall when I decorated this reading space, and they were the final touch I had been missing. The stream of water thins as I finish with the plants in the reading nook.

9:08 I tilt the can once more, but it's already empty back in the kitchen. I don't need to fill it all the way for the last few plants waiting here. I start with the one that hangs beside the window above the sink. It leaves, catching a bit of light even through the Gray sky. The water disappears quickly into the soil and I slow my hand to match it. Now for the plants on the island, one is propped up on a small stand so they sit at different heights.

9:53 Each one gets just enough, a small pause between pores. The one on the fridge is last, a hurdy breed that doesn't need much sun. When I'm done, I put the watering can back under the sink. Outside, the rain continues to water everything in the yard and across the village. I pick up my mug from the counter again, still warm, and sit on a stool for a moment without doing anything else. Some weeks the soil dries faster, some weeks it doesn't. Some plants need more, others need less. The rhythm shifts a bit each time, just enough that I have to stay present to what each one needs. I don't need to be perfect, just consistent with the habit. Watering the indoor house plants. I've found something close to a rhythm now. Watering day, landing on Sunday mornings just after breakfast when the hosts is still quiet.

11:25 It isn't a strict rule, but it happens often enough that I don't need to think about it anymore. The reminder comes naturally, usually when I wander through my rooms with tea. Today, the reminder arrives with the sound of rain tapping steadily against the glass. The kettle has already been emptied into my mug. Bob asked if the tea still hot as I come back into the kitchen. I set it down on the counter, then reach under the sink.

12:06 For the watering can I keep tucked to one side. I fill it slowly, adjusting the tap so the water runs gently instead of splashing around the edge. The sound is steady as it rises, covering the rain for the moment. When it's nearly full, I turn it off and hold it by the handle and the long spout to keep it steady, enjoying the weight of it. I always starred in the same place. Three plants near the front window of the living room sit on a low bookshelf, arranged with two to one side and the larger one on its own to the right. I lift the first pot just enough to feel its weight. It's not completely dry, but dry enough. I tilt the watering can, letting the stream fall slowly onto the soil instead of directly against the stems. The surface darkens and stages the water soaking in rather than pooling.

13:28 I wait between pores, giving it time to drink. This one was a gift brought over in a paper bag, the rim of the pot wrapped in tissue that had come loose by the time it reached my hands. I remember moving the two smaller plants together to make room for it, Unsure if it would stay in this spot or be moved if it didn't thrive here. The leaves were thinner than slightly uneven. Now they're fuller, spreading outward, letting me know it likes the place I chose for it. I rotate the pod a few inches to even note its lean toward the sun.

14:20 The next one had nearly been lost once before. I had gotten into the habit of watering on a regular day. The soil had pulled away from the edge of the pot, but I had missed it in my sporadic watering schedule. I then over corrected by giving it too much for a few days, but since then I've learned how to care for it. I tip the watering can again, slower this time, letting the water reach deeper. A small amount collects in the saucer beneath, and I leave it there for now, knowing it will be absorbed. I brush one of the leaves between my fingers before turning it a bit.

15:13 The rain has picked up. Tapping more firmly now, filling the space without overwhelming it, I move to the taller plant near the corner. This one I chose myself on a day that hadn't seemed important at the time. I had gone out for something else, something practical, and came back with it balanced awkwardly in the back seat, one hand reaching behind me at every stop to keep it from tipping. It may have felt like an unnecessary purchase then, but now it anchors the room. I check it with my fingers before watering, pressing just below the surface.

16:06 It's still slightly damp, so I add only a small amount circling the odor edge of the soil. It took time for me to learn that not everything needs the same attention. I stand, shifting the watering can to my other hand, and take a few steps back to look at the arrangement as a whole. It isn't perfectly even. Some leaves lean further than others, so I rotate this one too. It works and I move on. In the bedroom, the air is cooler. The window is open just enough to let in the sound of the rain, but not the wetness of it, a faint current of fresh air moving through the space.

17:04 There are fewer plants in here. One of them is newer, its leaves still adjusting to the place where it sits. I give it less than I think it might need, knowing that over watering can be worse than letting it dry out for a while. I move vote to my reading note at the end of the hallway. A handful of tiny pots sit on bookshelves and window sills. I lift them carefully, knowing their weights. Now, at each level of dryness, I add small amounts of water, smiling with pride at the consistency of care I've learned to give them. Their story started last fall when I decorated this reading space, and they were the final touch I had been missing. The stream of water thins as I finish with the plants in the reading nook.

18:12 I tilt the can once more, but it's already empty back in the kitchen. I don't need to fill it all the way for the last few plants waiting here. I start with the one that hangs beside the window above the sink. It leaves, catching a bit of light even through the Gray sky. The water disappears quickly into the soil and I slow my hand to match it. Now for the plants on the island, one is propped up on a small stand so they sit at different heights.

18:57 Each one gets just enough, a small pause between pores. The one on the fridge is last, a hurdy breathe that doesn't need much sun. When I'm done, I put the watering can back under the sink. Outside, the rain continues to water everything in the yard and across the village. I pick up my mug from the counter again, still warm, and sit on a stool for a moment without doing anything else. Some weeks the soil dries faster, some weeks it doesn't. Some plants need more, others need less. The rhythm shifts a bit each time, just enough that I have to stay present to what each one needs. I don't need to be perfect.

20:01 Just consistent with the habit. I wish you sweet dreams.