The Life of a Flower

You can call me a sap.  I find meaning in everything.  The world is full of symbols and I am a vessel of interpretation.  Call me corny or emotional or whatever.  I cry at the end of children’s books.  I own it.  I am it.  I can’t deny it.

I’ve cried a lot in the past few months.  Moving six hours away from the town I’ve called home for a decade tore me up.  Saying goodbye to the people in that town, well, I’ve lost it a few times.  It’s been hard.

Before we uttered a whisper of moving, things were clicking for me.  We’d unloaded our burdensome house and walked away from our piece of the American Dream.  Despite all of the beautiful memories we shared in that house, first words, first steps, first birthdays, I felt nothing when we walked out.  That’s a lie.  I felt full blown relief, almost to the point of giddiness.  I wanted to scream and yell at the house, ask why it took so much away from us, but I couldn’t get angry because I almost felt like laughing.  It was over.  The saga was finally over.  Great things continued happening, too.  Work was amazing.  My training roster was packed with challenging and funny clients, my coworkers inspired me, and my boss infused me with confidence I’d never before felt.  I loved the kid’s pre- and elementary schools.  I enjoyed deep, meaningful friendships.  I loved my church.

Our first move started us anew in many ways.  We rented a wonderful home in our favorite neighborhood almost immediately.  I could walk to work and stroll to my best friend’s house.  We had a big back yard and a patio and it was awesome.  This house was my dream house.  It was wonderful.

But something else was in the works.  As we were trudging through escrow, Dave was entertaining an offer by a great company to do an interesting, perk-laden job in the Bay Area.  He was considering it, pending my approval.  He says the conversation went something like this:

Dave:  What would you say if I told you that I’ve been offered a job with (all the blah, blah, blah details), but we’d have to move to the Bay Area?

Natalie:  Yes.  Let’s do it.  I need to do something that scares me.

Dave signed a job contract on the same day that we signed our lease.  Our move would be temporary.  We called our house The Summer Home.

The Summer Home filled me.  Life felt a little easier.  The kids had more room to play and we enjoyed a more private yard.  Friends visited.  We threw a “Hello-Goodbye Party” and fed about 35 people.  I putzed around the garden.  We recovered.

Along came July and the pressure mounted.  We began hunting for a house in earnest without knowing where we were going.  When August rolled around, well, I’ll simply say this: It was very hard and we both struggled for peace under the intense demands.  We argued.  We lived in a hotel for two weeks (or was it 2 years?!).  I grappled with excitement for something new and overwhelming grief for leaving very close friends.  Leaving schools and churches scoured me.  I was in a lot of pain.  The kids were happy, though.  For them, life must have been a bit like Eloise, living in a hotel with the cat.  We felt so much stress, but they had no idea!

Two weeks into our hotel stay, we found a house.  We took possession on August 17, but our PODS didn’t arrive for another week.  It was kind of awful and kind of fun.  We slept on an air mattress and ate off of paper plates.  We stole towels from the pool at the hotel.  When our stuff arrived, it was like Christmas.  But as I’ve said before, moving and unpacking is just like Christmas, except it’s just the same dusty crap you had before. 

Our friends did all of our plant-sitting for us, so I hauled all of our greenery up about two weeks ago.  Some plants suffered the fate of the back of the truck.  Windburn city!  Our beautiful plants were black leaves and flowers stripped from their stalks. 

One plant fared well, though.  I took special care with my plumeria, however.  During our stay at the Summer Home, it enjoyed warm morning sun, a little afternoon heat, and then shade.  I watered it regularly.  This passive love resulted in a funny growth out of the top, which I hoped would lead to something exciting and beautiful.  I waited patiently.  I am not known for patience, either.  During its stay at our friend’s house, it continued to grow and do the weird thing.  When I picked it up in late September, the growth proved to be a cluster of buds.  When loading the truck, I wrapped the plant in a giant trash bag and secured it in a windless spot.  I intended to see this plant come to fruition.

Our new town is hot.  Today was 99, and as I write, the clock and thermometer read 9:27 pm and 87 degrees respectively.  The plumeria gets blasted with hot sun in the morning, bakes in the afternoon, and then stews in the latent, shady warmth as the sun dips below the horizon.  I watched the flowers grow, petals so tight, itching to burst forth.  Then, last Friday, I saw the first bloom.

I purchased this plumeria from an ABC drugstore in Honolulu in March of 2006.  It cost around $5.  Alexandria was 4 months old.  She stayed with my parents while I tagged along on Dave’s business trip.  When we got back to LA, I drove to my parents to pick up Alexandria.  Dave drove home.  When he got there, he called me to tell me water was coming out from underneath the cabinets.

The flood.  The beginning.

So this plumeria, this odd stick that has only thrown giant, waxy leaves annually for over 5 years, has been wildly unexciting throughout the duration of our struggles - flood, frustration, anger, sadness, death, and near-death.  I’d considered throwing it away.  At one point, I thought it was dead.  But no, in her weirdness, she continued to live her funky life.  And five and a half years later, as my family settles into the most secure, happy, fruitful place we’ve been since the flood, our funny plumeria blooms. 

Symbolic, no?