A few years back, while we were all visiting the New York Botanical Garden up in the Bronx, my mother bought Jess a small, creeping, cactus-like succulent.  Jess named him Tiny Tim, and placed him next to Moe, our thriving Jade plant (who had likely grown lonely, since the deaths of his two previously adjacent plants, Larry and Curly), on the window sill.

Since then, presumably under Moe’s leadership, Tim continued to grow, and grow.  Not just his initial main stalk, but also about a dozen tinier Tims, who sprouted up where his leaves fell.  Until it was pretty clear that all the Tims had completely outgrown their small planter.

Fortunately, we already had a couple of larger, unused ones in the cupboard (cf., Larry, Curly), as well as some succulent potting soil stowed under the sink.  So, last week, as a quarantine home improvement project, we replanted Tim into a much, much larger home.

Replanting can be stressful for plants (it’s called transplant shock).  So, after repotting, I kicked off each morning by giving Tim a pep talk.  Which, in turn, inspired Jess to serve up some musical encouragement; ever since, she’s been playing this Music for Plants playlist for him pretty much every single day.

Honestly, I’m not sure how Tim (or, for that matter, Moe) feels about it; they’re both more of the silent type.  But Jess and I, at least. seem to be finding it pretty calming.  So, whether or not you are a plant, or even have any plants, if you’re looking for some soothing sounds to carry you through these shocking times, check it out.

Was digging through folders on my Mac this week, and stumbled across a long paper I wrote at Yale, back in 2001, on the cognitive science of music – and, particularly, on what makes music sound good. 

It appears I’d forgotten pretty much everything I once knew when I was writing the paper, so it was a fun and fascinating read for the current me.  In case you have too much free time on your hands, and similar interests, the whole thing is below. 

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“It is night and the vacant cavern is dim, chilly, still.  A few animals have arrived before the others, bustling about the immense expanse beneath the cavern roof sixty feet above.  From time to time a cry echoes through the chamber and the flurry of activity increases.  And then, all at once, a herd of two thousand shuffles in.

It is a highly territorial species and each animal seeks out its rightful station in the cavern.  Those of highest status roost farthest in; others withdraw to murky alcoves.   Outside, they had cooed and preened, dominated and submitted, but all that is finished now.  It is time to nest.

The cavern visitors are a species of tool users, and when a group of a hundred more enter – individuals with distinctive black and white coloration – they carry oddly shaped wooden boxes and metal tubes to the front of the chamber, where they sit together.  Abruptly, the dominant male struts in, climbs to a position above all the others, and performs a triumph display.  His arrival is greeted by much hooting and clatter… The dominant male suddenly commences an elaborate display, swinging his forelimbs to and fro.  It has begun.

Sound.  Glorious sound.  Sound of a kind little encountered outside the cavern, each tone a choir in itself, pure and enduring.  Patterns ascend to gyrate in midair, then fold into themselves and melt away as even grander designs soar… first it conveys circumspect pleasure.  Then delight.  Then amazement.  Then elation.  For something is emerging from the patterns, something between the tones that is unheard yet is substantial as any sound.  Voices hurl together; bass tones rise above a furious sweep of treble; the sound lowers its horns and charges.  Deep within, there’s a tightening, a verging, a sensation of release from gravity’s pull.  Ecstasy.” (Jourdain, 1996)

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