From my perspective, a sudden snip is not an ending but a thrilling new beginning. When your sharp, clean shears cut through my stem, it signals a pivotal moment. This act, often following a period of vigorous growth, is a clear environmental cue. It tells me to redirect my energy from vertical ascent towards creating new life. The hormones at the tip that once suppressed growth from lower nodes are now gone, freeing up the potential hidden within my nodes. This is the genesis of propagation, a chance to become more than one.
For my severed piece to have any hope, your preparation is crucial. I require a stem segment about 6-12 inches long, with at least 2-3 healthy leaves and, most importantly, several nodes. The nodes are my lifelines; they are the only places from which new roots can possibly emerge. Please make a clean, angled cut just below a node. Immediately, I will begin to weep my thick, milky sap—this is my way of sealing the wound and protecting myself. You can dab it away, but do not seal me with wax; I need to callous over naturally to prevent rot when introduced to water or soil.
Placing my base in a clear vessel of fresh, room-temperature water feels like a gentle invitation. The transparency allows me to sense the light and encourages your vigilance. Submerge only my nodes and a portion of the stem; my leaves must remain high and dry to breathe. From within, a remarkable transformation begins. The cells at the node sites, now constantly hydrated and oxygenated, are triggered to dedifferentiate. They revert to a more primitive state and begin dividing, slowly forming the white, fuzzy protrusions that will become water roots. Change the water weekly to keep me nourished and free from the bacteria that threaten my delicate new formations.
Alternatively, planting me directly into a moist, well-aerated potting mix feels like a more primal, immediate homecoming. This method requires you to first let my cut end dry and form a good callus, my natural bandage. Once planted, the consistent moisture in the soil coaxes my nodal cells into action. Without the visual reassurance of water propagation, I work in secret, sending out exploratory roots seeking stability and nutrients. The key is to keep the soil consistently lightly moist, not wet, to satisfy my thirst without drowning my nascent roots, which desperately need oxygen to develop.
Whether in water or soil, this period demands patience. In water, you will witness my white roots lengthen until they are a few inches long. For my soil-propagated siblings, a gentle tug that meets resistance after a few weeks indicates I have anchored myself. The final step for water-propagated cuttings is the most critical transition: moving me to soil. My water roots are specialized for an aquatic environment and are fragile. They must adapt to the denser, nutrient-seeking reality of soil. This is a vulnerable time where consistent moisture and high humidity are essential to help me avoid transplant shock and successfully establish my new terrestrial root system.
