THANKFUL FRIDAY

About six years ago (more like seven), the Nelson opened a new exhibit in their sculpture garden and a group of us from work walked over to see it. We walked by the Kauffman Gardens on our way back and as I passed the open dumpster just outside the garden, I noticed a whole hydrangea plant laying there on top of a bunch of garden debris. I reached in and plucked that hydrangea out and then I planted it in my front yard. It did not die that first year. It did turn all dry and dead looking, but when Spring arrived the next year, the hydrangea sprouted new growth. My mother was in for a visit and we had been driving around. I was boasting about my garbage hydrangea as we pulled into my driveway just in time to witness Michael mow over it with the lawn mower. Despite being mowed down, that plant sprouted new growth again and it has continued to do so every Spring.

But it has never bloomed until this year.

Every year, I have searched this plant for blooms and not even a hint of bloom has appeared. It reminds me of a story my Mom told me once about the hydrangea starter that she brought home from her sister in Mississippi. Mom planted it in the dry Oklahoma climate and watered it daily. It survived for years without ever blooming. She said that one day she was out watering that plant and said to it “If you do not bloom this year, I’m ripping you out of the ground and throwing you in the trash bin.” Her hydrangea plant bloomed that year. I did not inherit my Mom’s threatening green thumb. I am pleased when something even grows and more than surprised when something blooms. There’s a link between the way I deal with plants and the way I deal with life.

The month of June has left me scooped out. It was a lot. It was emotional. Camp Wildling split me in two and I never really got a chance to process any of those feelings before heading off to the next thing. Every time someone has asked me about Camp Wildling, all I have been able to say before my throat closes up with tears is “it was good.” I cannot talk about it without crying. The stories from each person I met at camp and the hows and whys they made it to camp are roots implanted into my skin. To pull them out would stop whatever it is that is starting to grow from those roots, from the whole experience of Camp Wildling. I don’t have a clue as to what is going to grow out of all of it, but I think that it is really important for me to watch for whatever it is that blooms from this.

In the meantime, I have a lot of work to do and not just the kind of work that pays the bills. I need to move things from a list into an action. There are some actions that need to happen that I have no idea how to do or where to begin, but I will just have to stumble my way through it. For right now though, I am going to take a moment to be grateful for things that blossom and bloom.