From my perspective, a Fiddle-Leaf Fig, the act you call "propagation" is not a procedure but an expression of my deepest, most fundamental drive: to exist and to multiply. When your shears make a clean cut on my stem, it is not an injury but an opportunity. It is a signal that awakens dormant potential, a call to the meristematic cells at my nodes that it is their time to become something new. This cutting, now separated from my main body, still carries my entire genetic blueprint, the map of what it means to be a Ficus lyrata. Its sole purpose now is to fulfill that map.
The most critical phase of this journey is the development of a new root system. In water, the cutting senses the constant aquatic environment. It detects the humidity and the oxygen dissolved in the water. Hormones, specifically auxins, accumulate at the basal end of my stem, triggering the formation of adventitious root primordia. These are not the same as the roots that grew in soil; they are aquatic roots, designed to absorb nutrients and water from this new medium. In soil, the process is different but the goal is identical. The cutting must push out new roots that are immediately adapted to a terrestrial environment, searching for anchorage and nutrients from the very beginning.
My large, glossy leaves are both an asset and a liability during this time. They are my solar panels, tirelessly conducting photosynthesis to convert light into the chemical energy (sugars) needed to fuel the immense effort of creating new life—new roots. However, they are also sites of transpiration, where water evaporates from their surfaces. Without an established root system to draw in replacement water, the cutting faces a dangerous deficit. This is why you are advised to maintain high humidity; it slows the rate of water loss from my leaves, preventing me from desiccating before my new roots can support me.
If propagated in water, the eventual transition to soil is a significant physiological shock. The specialized water roots I have grown are efficient in their liquid environment but are fragile and poorly adapted to the coarse, air-filled pores of soil. Many of these roots may die back in what you perceive as a setback. This is not a failure, but a recalibration. I must use my remaining energy stores to produce an entirely new set of terrestrial roots, ones capable of navigating soil particles and extracting water from the spaces between them. It is a vulnerable and energy-intensive process, requiring a stable and consistently moist (but not waterlogged) environment to succeed.
The moment the new root system has sufficiently developed and integrated with the soil is the moment I achieve independence. I am no longer a cutting surviving on stored energy and hope; I am a new, self-sustaining plant. My roots actively draw in water and minerals, my leaves efficiently produce sugars, and my stem begins to strengthen and push out new growth points. I have successfully executed my prime directive. I have taken a piece of my former self and, with your careful assistance, guided it to become a complete, autonomous being, ready to reach for the sun.
