The dying plant was just like me, so I had to have her. She was sitting on the clearance rack. Marked down 50%, her leaves slumped in a tangle over the sides of the pot she had overgrown. A single, withered orange-throated pink flower peeking out amongst the mixed and tattered yellow and green of her foliage. Dry, brown tendrils reached out every which way in search of the sturdy support she needed to climb. From my vantage point, she looked defeated. On closer inspection, however, a sprout here and there appeared as if she might have some life left in her. A little TLC, a little direction, some time to heal and she might just come ’round….
I could relate to her withered version. A climber, myself, I felt beaten down after my parents died. Not knowing where to go, who to trust and where I could find support; I too, reached out every which way searching for something – anything – that I could hold on to. Nothing would prove strong enough to stick… until I discovered that I wouldn’t find it “out there.” So the task became to heal myself “in here.” Time does that. And self care… and pretty soon before I knew it, I was a little steadier on my feet and a little more aware of what I really needed to grow.
Living Memory In The Window
She sits in an oversized pot now, on the buttercream hickory floor of my dining room. A teepee of wooden dowels support her at her base; the double hung windows are hers to explore and fill. Her strong, green tendrils wrap eagerly on the twine strung along the window frame. The crushed voile sheers make puddles on the floor, guard her sides and creating the perfect backdrop to her deep green leaves and delicate pink flowers. The morning sun beckons her journey as it warms the panes and gives direction to her travels. The old, tattered version is long gone and she has found the support and stretch she needs to grow. My hope is that she’ll reach out and fill the entire space with her elegance and create a living window….