Four years ago, I was living in my newly-renovated Marital Home with Then-Husband. We’d moved in at the end of March after purchasing the house the previous fall and spending months making everything The Way We Wanted It. The house wasn’t huge, but it was plenty for the two of us and our dogs. It came with a huge garage and there was an apartment above the garage which we planned to use as a little party hut. There was a large porch off the side of the house which comfortably accommodated our patio furniture and grill and there were flower beds all around. It was spring and the flowers were blooming….
And speaking of which, the house also came with a little sign peeking out from one of the flower beds. It was a piece of slate on a stick and it read “Bloom where you are planted.” Yes. I’d thought to myself at the time. I am going to bloom here. Nevermind the fact that I’m not entirely happy with Greg. We’re in this house now, business is picking up and it’s time to bloom.
But the “bloom” I was aiming for didn’t match the seed that was my essence. And the appropriate nutrients weren’t available to grow that seed. I was trying to bloom in a closet… and that just doesn’t work. The result was an angry, morbid, mutant version of myself.
Two months after we moved in, I left. Somewhere in what should have been a humiliating and devastating experience, I caught a glimpse of the sun and I turned toward it.
Presently, I’m sitting on a couch a fraction of the size of the one I left in the Marital Home. Outside, my car is parked on the street- I don’t even have a driveway, let alone a garage. There are no custom-painted frogs on the walls surrounding me and I haven’t done much at all to make this place The Way I Want It. But… it seems I’m blooming here anyway.