It seems that everyone I meet has a “line of
division” in life; that line that divides their before and their after. For
some it’s before and after children, for others it’s the death of a loved one,
and for many (like myself) it’s the end of a marriage. So many of our stories
begin with “when I was married” or, even more often, “after my divorce.” That is our line of division: marriage and
post-marriage. It defines us. There was a time when I thought that definition
to be unfortunate. I resented it, even. Time goes on, though, and you realize
that what doesn’t kill you DOES, in fact, make you stronger. You learn to bloom
right where life plants you.
When I was married, in my before-divorce life, we
had the white picket fence family life, on the outside. Inside, things were in
constant turmoil but we hid it well. I spent countless hours, days, weeks
creating an old English garden around our home. It was my therapy. Subconsciously,
I suppose, I thought if things lived and flourished outside, we would be able
to do the same inside. I planned, I planted, I cultivated, I weeded, I shoveled,
and I pruned. The garden grew. It was gorgeous: my pride and joy. When the time
came to move and leave that home behind, I mourned the garden. A silly thing,
it seems, to so many. I walked the perimeter for hours and shed tears for all
the wasted hours spent and all the blood, sweat and tears that I’d invested. I
wondered if the next owner would appreciate the fruits of my labor. I worried
about what would become of my plant babies. They were just plants & flowers,
but I felt guilty for abandoning them. There was a story behind each one; a
story that, in some odd way, defined a time period of our fifteen years as a
family in our before-divorce time. I decided in the last hours of the move,
that I would take some of my favorite plants with me. I chose the ones with the
best, most meaningful stories. A crazy idea, I realized, but I was determined.
Among the furniture, the bins of childhood memorabilia, and hundreds of other
boxes, I packed pots full of memories disguised as plants & flowers. They
wilted and struggled to survive. The parallel is so ironic. As I reflect on the
story and the irony within it, I laugh out loud. WE, the people, were
struggling to survive. We wilted.
Fast forward two years. This morning, I sit on
the balcony of my replacement home sipping coffee and reflecting on life. I
look around at the privacy barrier I’ve created. It’s made of potted plants.
Plants that survived a divorce and the loss of their home. Some of their parts
died. Some of the most beautiful parts of them didn’t flower or flourish for
several seasons. Slowly, though, they began to grow again. Slowly, with some
TLC, they began to thrive and to bloom…right where they’d landed. Once again, I
reflect on the ironic parallel to the people inside the home, and specifically
to the gardener. I struggled. Parts of me
died. Other parts stopped blooming and
lived in darkness for many seasons. But I survived. WE survived. And, slowly but most definitely
surely, we’ve learned to bloom…right where we landed; right where life planted
us.
