Once upon a time…
When I was in college, I had a few different Stephen King books-on-tape—yes, literal cassette tapes—that I often listened to in the car on the long drives between the campus and home.
It seems funny to me that I listened to the same stories more than once, now that my to-be-read pile totters and leans into my leisure time with subtle, persistent pressure . . . but never mind. The fact is, I did listen and re-listen, and a particular line stayed with me about married love being “a tough, weedy love, the kind schoolgirls wouldn’t suspect.” And since I was a schoolgirl at the time, the idea of such a love was purely theoretical for me.
Skipping right to the happily-ever-after…
One month ago yesterday, my sweet husband and I marked thirteen years of marriage. Neither of us is superstitious, but we did chuckle over our unlucky number and joke about how once January hit, we’d be able to start rounding up. So yes, Lord willing, we’ll celebrate fourteen years this December!
The point is that one month ago, he presented me with a dozen roses, and though the blooms on this batch didn’t do so well, the most remarkable thing happened as the flowers faded. The stems started sprouting new growth.
Whether they become viable for planting (or even grafting, maybe?) remains to be seen.
My sister Jenny, who has verdant opposable digits and is, as I like to say, a talented cuss, gave me some advice. “You probably don’t have any rooting hormone, do you?”
She was correct. I do not.
Then what?
I like having houseplants, but only the hardy survive the droughts between my flighty fits of attention. If you had asked me if I love gardening, I’d have shaken my head with a small smile. “Maybe someday,” I might have said.
But one of the recurring pleasures of 2019 for me were the “found plants”—flowers and greenery in unexpected places that moved me with their beauty. Even if they died later. They were alive for a time, and lovely.
On reading Austin Kleon’s recent post, The Garden of the Mind, the idea that the enjoyment of gardening is “loving what shows up” nudged my thinking a bit. That I might garden someday is another purely theoretical concept, but yes, I can love what shows up.
Like thorny leaves shooting out of my anniversary rose stems.
They brought forward that quote buried in my mind, about tough, weedy love, and I’ve glimpsed it in my husband’s and my life together. Romance stories are about pursuit, but married romance is tricky. One might assume the pursuit is over after the wedding, but as I experience it, at least, marriage is a mutual pursuit, a dance of supporting, correcting, and sometimes even rescuing each other. Or, in gardening language, of watering and pruning each other. We’re both still growing, and still choosing to love what shows up.
Happy New Year, and as always, thanks for reading!
