The Peace Lily

Once upon a time... a long time ago... (EONs in fact, if we are asking my kids) when I had just turned 20, I moved into a vibrant community of artist warehouses, situated in Surry Hills - an at the time grungy, cool, rich-poor artistic hub in Sydney.

A bizarre oasis that took anyone into an other-worldy experience as soon as they stepped inside the building. The building itself seemed magical - something that spoke only to those who had magical vision, and was invisible to those who might shut it down. (the law at the time was no one could live in industrial spaces)... (so we "worked" there... full time).

The warehouses were stacked on top of each other in an ad-hoc fashion, essentially 3 giant buildings - built at different times - fused on top of, and around, each other -creating an unpredictable architectural labrynth inside, that one could get lost in.

The doors, here and there, on each level, opened into huge wonderful warehouses, the higher up you went, the view of the City more spectacular, the quirkier the inhabitants.

0: Ground floor / street level - an institution of Korean fast food that kept us alive with their hot chips and MSG-rice. Under the stairs, near the loading dock, lived various homeless people, junkies and pigeons.

1: First floor - where I lived along with architects, a stained glass artist, music producer, photographer, painters, film producers and eventually the home of our Artist-run space

2: Second floor - Video artists, graphic designers, artists, musicians, various nerds - my late night tech saviours (bear in mind - iMacs and the Adobe suite had only just come out - before this all computers were beige and programs were code)

3: Third floor - a retired mad architect known only as 'George' who was triggered by repetitive noises and who was building a building inside the building and would hammer late at night if anything else was too noisy

4: Fourth floor - jazz musicians, spoken word artists

5: Fifth floor - BDSM dungeon, a few creepy people and a grunge rock goth band

6: Rooftop - photographers, sax player, artists, more tech savvy designers and hermits. etc

Needless to say, the parties were amazing.

For me, moving in here, came at a time post-traumas. Had I been diagnosed at the time probably some kind of severe PTSD label or ADHD would have described me. Moving into this space so began a new chapter of my life - one of healing. Where I trully learned the magical powers of art, poetry and music, and discovered the great medicine of deep and authentic conversation (now known as relational healing) AND where I learnt what 'community' really meant.

Across the road was my soon-to-be-met weaving teacher, in an even quirker block of warehouses.

The reason at the time, however, that I moved in to this place was because my boyfriend was going overseas, for an extended amount of time, and in my anxious-attachment grief-fog I asked if I could rent his room.

And so it was.

One night, a group of us urgently needed something from Kmart, and so walked down to Broadway. There, outside and on-special for $5each, was a collection of plants that caught my eye. There was something about their deep green, gleaming leaves, that captured my heart, in an otherwise big world of shiny plastic. I remember even rubbing the leaves to see if they were real. I bought one - a small Peace Lily.

It reminded me of one my parents used to keep in a big white faceted ceramic pot, and that my dad sporadically would sponge-clean the big leaves with a damp cloth, with great care. This lily was sometimes adoringly cared for, like this, and sometimes completely neglected to the point of death. It was moved around the house to very particular locations - the family room next to the record player, the front verandah "to give it some air" and eventually the back courtyard... where I think it might have died.

I carried my new little lily home, and memorised the latin name on the tag "Spathifylum".

Being the human I was at the time, where self care was more something like self-neglect, I probably did not take care of this lily as well as I could have. I had high hopes of making a beautiful minimal space, with white walls, splashes of climbing plant and a glorious flourishing lily in a crafted pot. However, being a maximalist textile, paper and found-object enthusiast... alas.

The lily first sat near the window on my shared desk made of milk-crates and planks of wood.

I later moved it into my messy room and remembered to water it now and then. It got very dusty. I would sometimes remember dad's leaf-cleaning technique and give it a wipe down. Bizarrely the new leaves were growing smaller... and smaller, rather than bigger.

One day, I thought perhaps it was dying from all the smokers I lived with and needed some air - so I moved it to sit on my balcony ledge. I say balcony - but it was more like an over-sized concrete ledge with no railing that could fit up to 3 or 4 people. I was a floor up, and so if you fell off, you would probably either land in the big-bins or the loading dock. I loved to watch sunrise over the city from here, and spent many all-nighter pre-dawn moments there, chatting to someone, or alone, watching the world.

And there it lived - in the full sun and city elements - only just surviving.

One day the building cleaner - a mysterious man with a peg-leg - was cleaning the rooftop, and threw the giant poo of the top-floor's rottweiler off the edge of the building, in the direction of the bins below. Unfortunately the whole pile of turds landed on MY lily! I was outraged! How disgusting! What kind of person shovels poo -with top-level velocity- onto a tiny plant?

I quickly reshovelled the poo off the edge of my ledge with a long handled broom and heard a "HEY!!!!!" from down below.... I remained invisible.

After some time, I resurfaced and rescued my plant. It had been completely cleaved in 2 - the tiny too-crisp leaves flattened, the exposed roots halved. And covered in shit.

I showered it and sat it in a sink of water, and somehow... it survived.

This plant continued this neglectful lifestyle until I moved out, years later. First to a tiny house up the road, and then later - as Surry hills became too pricey- to a little terrace house in Redfern. Here it lived in a garden, struggling, and only ever grew tiny leaves. Once it did try and have a flower.. I was so excited. Wow.. I thought - I can't believe this plant still knows how to flower! However the flower was weirdly only half a flower... it was missing its whole top and looked like someone had cut the top off with a pair of scissors.

Poor plant. I often felt sorry for it.

I would sometimes watch it or repot it.. a bigger pot? a smaller pot? I wondered what it needed to flourish.. or if it even could.

I remember one time it was purely a root... no leaves at all.. and I wondered if it was dead.

I felt guilty for not having the skills to look after it better.

Looking back now, I can see how closely my own nervous system mirrored that plant - surviving, adapting, never quite thriving, but quietly refusing to die.

In 2019, when my kids were 2 and 7, we moved completely away from the city, to live near the bush and the sea, and I brought my aged lily with us.

After covid, after bushfires, after floods, after cats, after it all.. the lily - living in the bathroom near the toilet so all could gaze upon its miraculous not-death - looked dead.

I sighed, and thought... well.. if its dead, I guess it doesn't need its pot anymore. I'll see if it can grow outside.

I planted the dry root stub, potless, in the free-earth, next to the bird bath and my grandmothers bromeliads, right on the edge of the bush.

This was a few years ago now.

And then, a few days ago.. something white caught my eye.

I looked over, and there they were. A thriving, gorgeous and miraculous collection of peace-lillies. Gently swaying in summer afternoon nor-easter.

An abundance of the biggest leaves it had ever had, and small lily flowers - a bit battered looking - with buds still coming.

I gasped with an incredulous joy. WELL LOOK AT YOU! I exclaimed.

Hello, my old friend.

I wondered what it was teaching me.

About patience, trust, and the quiet intelligence of life, which knows exactly when it’s time to bloom? Or perhaps something about forgiveness, resilience... or freedom.

What do you think?

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If you've noticed your own Peace-lillies…

If you’ve ever watched a peace-lily survive far more than it should - and then, one day, bloom - you may recognise something of yourself in that story.

If you feel called to explore the threshold you’re crossing - to honour what you’re shedding, what you’re keeping, and who you’re becoming - our therapists would love to walk beside you.

Book a session in this month’s Clinic.We look forward to greeting you as things begin to brighten, and you step into who you are, again..

Book YOUR SESSION

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About the Writer

Michelle McCosker is a vibrant and creative person, certified in both Holistic Psychotherapy and Art Therapy. Her life experiences and playful approach provide profound wisdom in her work. She gently guides her clients through old wounds at their own pace, utilising the resources already within their own inner landscape, offering compassion and clarity, helping them access their innate wisdom and self-acceptance. She calls this 'healing from the inside'.

Michelle also offers 1:1 online Holistic Psychotherapy and Art Therapy Sessions (online and in-person) outside of clinic hours.

Michelle is currently a Community Steward for the Connection Culture Community which includes care-taking the Clinic, Mentoring Students and offering focussed study sessions 'Empowered Practice' to Holistic Psychotherapy students studying Lee Trew's model.

Read more about her here.