If you're boring like me, growing orchids constitutes excitement

In the way that some people are interested only in their own children and grandchildren, not children in general, so I’m interested only in my own orchids. I know next to nothing about the plants. I’m not an orchid breeder, collector or thief. I simply enjoy keeping things alive and watching them grow. I think I’m rather good at it. 
               
The skill isn’t dissimilar to what it takes to survive as a freelance writer. The profession requires that you be self-motivated since there’s nobody looking over your shoulder telling you to get back to work. Your standards have to be higher than anybody else’s. “B” work just doesn’t cut it. 
               
Orchids require a similar sense of responsibility even while they demand surprisingly little attention. All you have to do is water them on occasion, spritz them with orchid food, and place them somewhere they won’t burn up or freeze to death. I’m totally on top of that. The challenge comes in is remembering they’re alive, since most specimens only blossom once or twice a year, if that. The rest of the time they’re just green plants and not especially attractive ones.
               
Once they assume that indifferent state people are tempted to throw them out. White orchids, in particular, have become so ubiquitous they’ve lapsed into cliche. In journalism they’re often the default thank you note from the recipient of favorable coverage. The Wall Street Journal, during my tenure there, looked like a used plant sale. So neglected were they that windowsills came to resemble plant graveyards. I’d occasionally rescue them from the trash.
               
I doubt Journal reporters were intrinsically cruel. They simply treated orchids the same way one does flowers. No matter how freshly cut and beautiful, whether tulips or anemones flowers rarely survive more than a few days. 
               
But it’s after all the blossoms fall away and nothing is left but the bare stems that the orchid’s true excitement begins. If I mentioned that freelance writing disposes one to orchid cultivation, another character trait that calls one to the craft is penny-pinching. Orchids tend not to be cheap, especially when purchased from a florist. When they rebloom you feel as if you’re getting something for free. You’re regifting yourself in perpetuity. Well, not quite. I don’t keep a log, but mine seem to have a life span of around five years.
               
There are currently five orchids sitting in a bathroom in our home that has southern exposure, not that orchids require direct sunlight. In fact, depending on the species that may even be detrimental. If I’m lucky one of them is in bloom. Did I mention that orchids also demand patience. They’re exercises in delayed gratification which, come to think of it, is also what writing is about. There’s nobody standing over your shoulder applauding as you type. The rewards — apart from the intrinsic reward of the creative process — if they come at all, lay months or years in the future.
               
But big things are currently happening on my bathroom windowsill. Three of my five orchids are preparing to blossom, in other words a trifecta. The fourth is about to lose it last flower half a year after the plant’s first flower appeared. Store bought orchids may be at their peak when purchased. But the process from first bud to last flower when you’re regrowing them at home provides months of anticipation and reward. 
               
My most forlorn orchid looks like it has one foot and several toes in the grave. All that remains is a keiki, a clone of the mother plant. (I had to look that up.) I recently repotted it hoping to raise its spirits. We’ll see if it does any good. Another specimen displayed so little initiative — it had been years since it last bloomed — that I assumed I was imagining it when I noticed a tiny nub emerging from its jungle of leaves. That nub is now a stalk 9” tall and preparing to do great things.
               
Weather permitting we’re heading down to Florida next week. We visited last year — then and now at the invitation of friends. I wouldn’t call the state, with its golf courses and gated communities, the most naturalistic place on the planet. Perhaps other parts of Florida are. Palm Beach isn’t unless your definition of nature is the unconscionable display of wealth. 
               
The reason I bring it up is because there’s a restaurant in West Palm Beach decorated with pink orchids dangling from the ceiling, root systems and all. They’re not even in soil let alone in pots. I’m not sure how they survive. Someone must mist them occasionally. I’ve never thought much of Florida, starting with a fun-free visit with my difficult college girlfriend back in the day. But any climate that supports orchids that effortlessly deserves some respect.