Three years ago for Mother’s Day, my husband bought me an orchid. A lovely, thoughtful gesture, no doubt. But, friends, a mistake of gigantic proportions.
A mistake because I can’t keep plants alive.
I want to. I really do. I buy beautiful plants for my home and my yard with grand plans to have a vibrant and luscious living space. What I end up with instead, is a pile of wilted, sad, and eventually, dead plants.
I water them just a little. They die.
I water them a lot. They die.
I plant them in the sun, in the shade, in a dark corner of the bathroom where there is moisture and humidity, on a special shelf designed to hold potted plants, but they all die.
After over 15 years of marriage, it was slightly concerning to me that my dear husband clearly hadn’t caught onto this disturbing trend of botanical mortality that ran strongly through my adult life, and he still thought that the most appropriate gift to give on the day that honors the life I brought forth into the world was a flower.
And, not just any flower. An orchid. Which, if you didn’t already know, is the very definition of precious.
If you touch the petals of the flower, it will wither and die. If you give it any more water than what comes from an ice cube that melts at room temperature on a plastic plate, it will get moldy and die.
I require plants that are robust, hearty, and, quite possibly, plastic. Orchids are gorgeous, exotic, and delicate. This was not the gift for me.
He could tell from my tight-lipped, high-pitched “Thank you!” that something was not quite right and he quickly explained his thinking.
“It’s beautiful, just like you,” he said.
“It’s unique, just like you,” he said.
“But honey,” I responded, “you really shouldn’t have. No, seriously. You actually shouldn’t have. I’m going to kill that thing faster than Friday will get here, and it will have just been a waste of $40.”
“Let’s just give it a chance, babe. Maybe this will be the one that changes everything.” Oh! The hope in his eyes, friends. I couldn’t bear to crush the dream of becoming a wife who might, eventually, develop some semblance of a green thumb. Maybe this would be the one that changed everything. Well, I was at least going to enjoy the beautiful bloom while it lasted.
That bloom did wither and fade and fall off the plant, and I was left with a cup of gnarly roots supporting a stalk and two leaves. We were a long way from the beautiful, exotic orchid that showed up in my house on Mother’s Day. It looked bleak and lifeless and seemed to be confirmation of everything I suspected to be true: I can't be trusted with plants. My dear, patient, ever hopeful and encouraging husband, swooped in with his google report on Orchids just as my hand hovered over the trash can with the expired plant.
“Don’t throw it away! I know it doesn’t look like anything is going to happen, but it will! The Internet says they only bloom once a year. It’s not dead! It’s just going to take some time to bloom again.”
Cue the giant internal eye roll from me. Fine. I’ll keep the crusty cup of twisted roots on my windowsill. How inspiring. Maybe I can find a fake one on clearance at Target, and make the swap without him realizing.
Over the next few months, every now and then I would throw a little water on my cup o’ roots. I didn’t sing to it or speak positive words of affirmation over it. I didn’t prune anything back or move it to a spot where the gentle rays of the morning sun could coax it into growth. I didn’t believe that any signs of life would return.
After months of barely paying attention to the orchid, I noticed a little green nub shooting up from between the leaves. A few days later, a little bulb was on the end of that nub. I casually asked Joe, “Hey, do you think this thing is going to bloom again?” as I tipped the plant in his direction.
He jumped up; his eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. “Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh! It’s coming back! Just like they said it would! You did it!” He danced around the kitchen island with the beginnings of that precious flower balanced in his hands.
I have to admit; a little part of my skeptical soul died that day that we discovered the Orchid bud. I knew that I was a long way from being master of the garden, but I had held on long enough to see that rebirth was possible. Turns out, it required more patience than skill. It also required me to recognize that growth takes time and is usually happening in ways we can’t see right away.
That orchid still sits on my windowsill. We are on the cusp of more blooms opening after having to stare at a bleak cup of roots for the last several months. For three years it has served as a reminder that even when things are bleak, the days feel hard, and hope seems to be dormant, life is present and growth is happening.
When you struggle through those seasons that are brutal and ugly, the beauty that follows might catch you off guard. You will be surprised by the spectacular way that life springs forth from what felt dead or dying. When you catch the beginnings of something beautiful emerging, dance around the kitchen island in celebration, my friends. Remember that beauty and cling to it as a hope-filled reminder of what is possible when everything seems impossible.
I can promise you that the plastic orchid from Target wouldn't have taught me such hope or brought me such beauty.
No comments:
Post a Comment