Try harder

How a little orchid is inspiring me.

My orchid finally found a proper home. I’ve been carrying her around with me for years. I don’t remember how or whence she came, but she’s never been fulgently happy. She’s been… fine, most of the time. And poorly some of the time. Two of her strong, broad leaves have been cut in half from the time they burned. She didn’t like that location. For years, she grew not at all, did nothing at all, just sat there, like a dour green starfish. But now, on my desk in the corner of my new flat, between two windows that are semi-shaded by a tree on one side and a diaphanous blind on the other, she is coming into her own. She is rising tall. A proud new leaf like a flag springs up vertically. Four fat, silver-green air roots reach like the blades of a windmill from her center. They are as fat as the biggest earthworm in your styrofoam container from the fishing store, and just as alive, reaching, searching. And, best of all, and most surprising, is the long, smooth, ridged-at-three-inch-intervals stem from which, I can tell, flowers will eventually form and bloom. She is a marvel to behold, and I’m moved by how well she is, how long-suffering she was. How much potential she had.

I don’t want to keep penning depressing missives here. I want to focus on the positive. Stop trying to find myself and instead create myself.

I was doing pretty well. I was feeling stable and have been for months. Even happy. Calm. At peace.

That changed this week.

First, the “E” word came up. A friend sent me an article by a therapist that works with estrangement. She did this the day after she asked about my daughter. Had I heard anything? Any word from M.? No, nothing. It’s been four months, and I can’t reach out. I’ve been told in no uncertain terms that any attempt to do so is not welcome. The few times I’ve almost done so, again, my closest friends have practically shouted in unison, No. Don’t do it.

So, I wait.

But, I never use the word, the E word. I never say that about my daughter. How could I? How would I?

I guess that means I’m in denial.

So be it.

Even typing about this right now is making my chest swell painfully.

It’s okay that my friend sent me the article. She wanted me to know about this therapist that specializes in this kind of wound. I’m glad to know she’s out there, and writes about this topic. Good to know.

I skimmed the article, but couldn’t handle it. “The special pain of e…” You know.

So, I was destabilized this week. But the observation beneath that observation is a shocking realization of how fragile I am, how easily my apparent peace can be destroyed. I feel like I’m at sea frantically reaching for the side of a boat that is drifting away just a little quicker than I can swim.

I was doing reasonably well. Working hard, taking care of my house. Watering my garden, admiring my house plants, watching Breaking Bad, starting a new book I’m excited about.

But then, yesterday, the boat gunned the engine.

I’ve perhaps screwed up. I was moving so much stuff out of the property I own with my son, where I lived and where he lived until recently. Most of the flat had been emptied. I thought there was just a little bit remaining. My son said we needed to have it empty THAT DAY. I said I would do it. It took more than a week, and there are still two pieces of furniture for sale on FB Marketplace. There was far more stuff left behind than I realized, including a closet full of my son’s things. I sent him some pictures, and he told me in no uncertain terms that the striped wool hat his friend had made him was valuable and please put it somewhere safe for him.

I thought I did. I remember putting it in the box (basket?) that I’d set aside for him.

He asked for it yesterday. I checked the garage here at my new flat. Nothing. I checked the garage at my old flat. Shockingly, I didn’t find it.

Dread swept over me, began filling me up, boiling, spilling over, and it shows no sign of leaving.

My son is upset, grief-stricken, and angry. That was important to me. I told you. I was so clear about it.

I said, I don’t know what happened. I was careful…

No, Mom. You weren’t. If you had been careful, you’d know where it was.

Ouch.

He’s right, of course.

I was careful—at first. I began carefully. I remember, but then, somewhere along the way, I stopped being careful. I lost track of my son’s things.

I can blame all kinds of things for this. I was going too fast, he pressured me, I have a weak back, someone else moved it, I got overwhelmed, I lost track of it when I brought stuff to Salvation Army…

That’s my fear. That I had my son’s box with or near the stuff that was going to Salvation Army, that the helpers there reached in and got the box without my noticing, while I was pulling other stuff out.

I didn’t protect it.

I wasn’t careful.

Yesterday, I wrote in my journal that I’m afraid.

And, I am.

It’s not clear in the passage what I’m afraid of, but I think I know.

I’m afraid, terrified, that I will lose my son too. He will realize whatever it is my daughter realized about me. That I’m toxic. That I’m careless. That I’m bad. A bad mom. Not worthy of love. I haven’t done the work. I’m lazy. I’m problematic. I’m annoying. I’m a bad mom, bad friend. Selfish. Misguided. Harmful. Dangerous.

Years ago, a therapist called me aggressive. I defended and denied vociferously. Later, I realized he was right.

I hope I’m not still aggressive. I think I’ve worked on it.

But I’ve perhaps replaced aggression with conflict-avoidance.

Recently, while talking with my therapist about some upset feelings I had about a friend, he said I had to talk to her. I said, What’s the point. I don’t want to feel humiliated. He said not talking to her was co-dependent. I didn’t understand that at all. He said not clearing the air because I was afraid of what I would hear was co-dependent because my very sense of self-worth hinged on what she said and what she thought of me.

In other words, there’s not there there. The center does not hold.

Fragility.

It’s extreme fragility we’re talking about here.

I seem to lack a core root that will allow me sway and bend, to suffer the winds while holding my ground.

But, wait. That’s cognitive distortion.

Do I really lack that root, that grounding?

I’m going to fight back.

No. I clearly have it. I’m still alive, at 57. Not perfect. Fragile, ashamed, scared, and teary, but I’m here. I’m far from perfect. I’m doing “the work.” Perhaps half-heartedly. I shy away at times. A lot.

But I’m still here.

My therapist said, You’re going to have to work hard. Are you prepared to work hard?

I don’t know that I’m working hard yet, on anything.

A former therapist said, What would happen if you took yourself seriously?

What would happen indeed.

What does it mean to take oneself seriously?

The little orchid on my desk seems to know.

Look at her. She’s lop-side and torn. Her two largest, broadest leaves are cut in half. Straight, sawtoothed brown edges mar her appearance. Mangled first by sunburn, then my gardener’s shears, compounded by years of neglect.

But suddenly it’s no longer the first thing you see. Now, the parts of her that jump out and command attention are the vibrant new leaves, curving chaotically away from her center, the single strong new one rising up like a scion, the writhing roots covered with a sheen, the stem holding as yet unknown potential, reaching out from under a leaf, snaking toward the window, eight inches long already with two fat nodules at the end like searching feelings, a third nodule forming, a pale lavender shadow like dust accenting their pretty curves.

I may have lost my son’s hat, the funny striped hat his girlfriend knit for him over a period of several months. He’s upset and grieving. He’s angry. I am too. I’m mad at myself. I may have messed up. I mean, I did mess up. And I made it worse by crying, But I was careful! I was so careful!

I wasn’t careful. I wasn’t careful at all. He’s right. Had I been careful, I’d know exactly where it is.

I can cast about and shift blame, but that’s the truth.

Stop trying to find yourself. Create yourself.

What can I do differently today that will be a step in that direction? In creating a self I can live with, one that won’t be easily abandoned? How do I not abandon myself?

This little orchid didn’t abandon herself, even when she was lost, alone, forgotten, and left to die, probably more than once. She persevered. She bided her time. She waited for someone to care, or care again. She took what resources she could, and when she was given the right environment, she sprang up, gathered her forces, and stepped into herself.

I don’t want to make this too pat. I wish I could end this neatly, tie it up with a bow, be inspiring. I don’t feel inspiring right now, however. I’m not an orchid. But this little orchid is doing something important. She is beautiful despite her flaws. She is beautiful because of her flaws. She is beautiful.