"A seed neither fears light nor darkness, but uses both to grow."
― Matshona Dhliwayo
Hard relentless rain was falling. I was sad. Defeated. Most of all, I was enraged. I had been planting seeds for a while that were supposed to lead to my best, blooming potential. I was approached to write this blog post, but I had nothing to say. I couldn’t be inspirational. I wasn’t a success story. And yet, my hardheaded, angry, and broken self refused to believe that all my seeds hadn’t washed away, and I wasn’t barren. I was ashamed of my weakness. I didn’t want to embrace any darkness. I wanted to be blooming-NOW!
You see, I had been planting the seeds months ago that were to become my beautiful garden. I was under the impression then, that I had perfectly landscaped my life-and damn girl! Here we GROW! In June, I had decided to take my dream job of being a personal chef. I landed a high-profile sports team chef job, but then decided to leave it to take a school lunch lady job. My personal chef dream became my side hustle. However, I dreamed of being able to be a personal chef during the day and an artist outside the kitchen. Eventually ditching the lunch lady gig would give me ample time to pursue my artwork. My game plan was in place. I was ready to roll! The week I solidified my new plan, my husband lost his job. Through excruciating helplessness, I continued to water my seeds, determined to plow forward. What’s a little rain?
Between hoping my husband wouldn’t jump off a bridge and watching his pained expression, my 53-year-old ass worked like a maniac full time at the school and churned out 60 meals a week for my personal chef clients. When I came up for air, I realized how much pain I had been in for weeks. I couldn’t walk because my feet were failing me. I couldn’t use my hand due to pain. My pain forced me to terminate my personal chef gig. I missed 13 days of my school job. Money gone. Dream Gone.
My doctor informed me that I needed reconstructive hand surgery, and that my life as I know it must change. Mosaic Art, my favorite medium, was out of the question. It was my outlet, my therapy, and something I did only for myself. As for chef life? I was told I would never go back to my previous performance level.
That rain? It turned to snow, and I covered the ground with leaves for the winter.
In November my husband got a job, and we breathed a giant sigh of relief. I could focus on those seeds once again and grow despite my physical state. I was invited to show a piece of my art in a mosaic showcase in Chicago. Finally, a ray of sunlight beamed on my dormant dream.
But, life has a way of turning fertile ground into fallow ground.
The second week of February, I caught pneumonia. After three days in bed, my husband bounded up the stairs, choking on his sobs. He had found our fifteen-year-old corgi, Morgan, in his favorite garden spot with his throat ripped open. He was dying. Hysteria. Throw on shoes. Grab keys. Wrap the limp body in a blanket. Drive fast. My beloved Morgan was suffering. I held the wound closed with the blanket. In his terrorized state, he reared up and bit my face!
My husband dropped me off at the emergency room. There I stood in my homeless pajamas and bedhead, covered in blood. No ID. No phone. I was crying so hard and wheezing that I couldn’t explain what had happened.
Forty stitches and five days later, still convalescing in bed, my husband woke me up at 5:00 am. “I think I need to go to the ER. I think I’m having a heart attack.” On the heels of losing our corgi to a coyote attack, he spent five days in the hospital facing multiple diagnoses. I felt like we couldn’t catch a break. I brought him home on a chilly 27 degree day. Forty-five minutes after we walked through our front door, the power went out. We managed to survive the next four days, powerless, in our walk-in cooler of a house.
We returned to work the following Monday.
Longing for another dog, I searched for a puppy online. In my grief and desperation, I lost $300 in an online puppy scam.
As I walked my garden, I squeezed my eyes shut so as not to see the crocus peeking out in my yard. When I looked at Morgan’s garden spot, hot tears streamed down my face and fell where he once lay.
I am pissed at seeds. Sometimes, dreaming hurts. But life is like that, sometimes fallow, sometimes fruitful. This week spring break arrived. The sun shone, and somehow a new puppy has filled our garden once again. My personal chef client called and asked me to come back. I finished six mosaic projects that I had been sitting on for months. I raked the wet, dead leaves from beds and surveyed the damage of winter. I saw lots of spaces for new blooms. It was 80 degrees, and the warmth felt so good. The weatherman said there could be one more frost or snow, but I drove to the local hardware store and bought $60 worth of seeds anyway. I sprinkled them everywhere with abandon. I looked up to the light. There is growth from darkness.
"Ring the Bells that can still ring. Forget your perfect offering. There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in." -Leonard Cohen
To check out Nicole's glorious mosaics, click HERE.
What a beautiful raw and powerful writing.
ReplyDeleteWow, that really is so much to get through. I admire your resilience!
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