Decluttering Log: The True Weight of Letting Go of a 'Living Thing' After Killing a 100-Yen Houseplant

Meeting Three Small Potted Plants

"I want just a little more space and warmth in my room."

It was around Golden Week last year when I decided this. As I spent my days stripping away unnecessary things and pursuing a light, comfortable life, it seemed to me that my room needed a little bit of "green" in the corner.

I headed to a nearby 100-yen shop. At the time, I had a somewhat simplistic mindset of "I just want to start easily." In a corner of the gardening section, three small seedlings were looking up at me, looking particularly lively and cute. The price was only 330 yen.

A sophisticated touch for my home, acquired for just a few hundred yen. It is true that I was attracted to that convenience. To me at the time, they were just "lovely items to decorate the interior," and I hadn't thought deeply about the weight of the life that awaited or the trouble of saying goodbye. On that day, when I returned home carrying the greenery in small plastic pots, I was simply harboring faint expectations for the daily routine of "nurturing" that was about to begin.

Three Different Fates: Ease of Care and Reality

When I first brought them home, every pot was equally lush and brightened up the room. However, as the months passed, their fates diverged in a cruelly different way for each one.

The first pot lost its vitality in just about three months. Thinking, "I want to save it somehow," I plucked the young shoots that were still alive, put them in water, and after waiting for roots to appear, I carefully transplanted them into new soil. I spoke to them every day and watched over them, believing in their regeneration, but my wishes were in vain, and in the end, they never took root.

The second pot could not survive the harsh winter. It was likely "winter kill." By the time I felt the arrival of spring, the leaves that had been so vibrant were stained a painful brown. On the other hand, only the third one, a "money tree" (pachira), grew surprisingly well and continues to sprout new leaves one after another even now.

When I looked it up later, the two types I had let die were not difficult varieties to grow at all. In fact, they are considered "sturdy and for beginners." "Was it because they were 100-yen shop seedlings?" "Or was my way of caring for them bad?" Now, I don't know the real reason. It's just that even though I watered them the same way and placed them in the same spot, the outcome of their lives was so different. If they were objects, the same model number would function the same way, but I had to painfully realize, standing before the withering leaves, that plants have a "life" that cannot be standardized.

Facing the Complexity of the Process of "Letting Go"

Facing the two pots that had withered, I finally decided to "let them go."

As a minimalist who makes it a principle to organize unnecessary things and create space in the room, I thought I was used to letting go of things that had finished their role. However, this "letting go" was of a completely different quality from the disposal of old clothes and appliances I had experienced so far.

The first thing I faced was the reality that the process for disposal was more complex than I had imagined. To say "goodbye" to a plant, it doesn't end with just putting it in a trash bag. First, I pull the plant out of the pot. When I shake off the soil, there are roots that were desperately stretching out to absorb water. They were by no means healthy-looking roots, but the traces of a life that had certainly been active were transmitted from my fingertips along with the feel of the soil.

And from here, the work of "sorting" begins. The plant body that has ended its life goes to burnable trash. Since the pot was ceramic, it goes to non-burnable trash, and the saucer was plastic, so that goes elsewhere; it is necessary to separate them finely by material. When I welcomed one life into my room, it was instantaneous, just by paying "330 yen." But when letting it go, it is accompanied by this much physical effort and an indescribable weight in my heart.

The time spent watering and enjoying their growth was certainly rich. However, how much were we able to imagine the "responsibility of the end" that lies behind it? While sorting the withered plants, I could not help but reflect on my own selfishness. If it were an object, it would be "disposed of" when broken, but plants have "death." The task of separating them and sending them off felt like a punishment for myself for having taken life lightly, or perhaps the only funeral I could give them at the end.

The "Responsibility" Shared by a Cat That Lived for 21 Years and a 100-Yen Plant

Just as I finished cleaning up after the plants, I received a message from my father back home. It was the news that the cat we had lived with like family for many years had passed away.

That cat had lived a long life of 21 years. In human terms, that is a ripe old age of about 95. What came through in my father's words was a deep sense of loss, but at the same time, a feeling of accomplishment that was almost refreshing.

Moving animals and stationary plants. The forms of life they possess are different. However, since we welcomed both into our lives for our own convenience, there is an equal 'responsibility for a life (as an individual)' that arises. They did not come to our homes of their own volition. They are placed in an environment where they cannot survive without human care, and they spend their entire lives there. That is precisely why watching over them until the very moment their lives end and properly arranging their final moments is the minimum duty of a caregiver.

Whether it is a cat that has been by your side for 21 years or a potted plant from a 100-yen shop, the essence remains the same. Reasons like 'it was cheap' or 'it was easy' are merely excuses on the human side. Through my father's news, I was strongly reminded that acquiring something with life also means buying into the 'resolve' to take on the joy, the hardship, and even the final disposal until the day they complete their journey.

Graduating from 'living things' rather than just objects

I have let go of countless 'objects' until now. However, this experience felt less like 'throwing away' objects and more like 'graduating' from a life.

No matter how small a potted plant may be, they were beings that truly breathed in my room and gave me moments of peace. That is why, rather than begrudging the effort of sorting them, I perform the final procedures carefully, filled with gratitude for the time we shared. I believe that this series of actions is the etiquette of someone who has been entrusted with a life.

'Letting go' is by no means throwing something away irresponsibly. Rather, it is acknowledging the value that the existence gave to you, taking responsibility until the very end, and seeing them off with a clear conscience. Only through this process can we turn that experience into our own nourishment and take the next step forward.

Now, in my room, the last remaining Kapok is spreading its lush green leaves. With the 'weight of being entrusted with a life' that the two withered pots taught me held close to my heart, I am watering this little bit of green with more affection than ever before.

When welcoming a living thing, do so with caution. When spending time together, do so with all your heart. And when it is time to part, do so with deep gratitude.

Precisely because we live in an age overflowing with things, as a simplist and as a human being, I want to continue to face the 'responsibility of life' with sincerity. This act of letting go has etched that new resolve into me.

Thank you very much for reading until the end.