make your ego porous.

"Make your ego porous. Will is of little importance, complaining is nothing, fame is nothing. Openness, patience, receptivity, solitude is everything."

― Rainer Maria Rilke

Last January, I was given a Christmas cactus as a graduation present. It was in full bloom at the time and symbolic as I took my first steps toward a reinvented and uncertain future as a writer, as an artist, and (for the most part) as a mature woman with a mindset focused on goals I had once seen as unattainable. My priority was to get my life in order—to stop falling for unavailable men who took more than they gave, to make some firm commitments about things, and to ditch the excuses.

Graduate school and earning an MFA (which you really don’t need to be a writer, this is true) not only broadened the picture for me and opened my eyes to a community of extremely passionate people, but it also taught me self-discipline and to have confidence in myself and my abilities. And though I made the decision to further my education rather impulsively (after the passing of my grandmother, Norma Lenore), this was truly the confluence of my life when I really began to define who I was as an independent and driven adult.

So, back to the plant. The whole world is your oyster- scenario was unfurling for me, and all these fuchsia flowers were abundant and open like their entire existence had led up to this one moment of flamboyant display. Only lasting a few short weeks, then the buds began to close again, like sleepy little eyes. And for a period of time, I didn’t think the plant would make it. It looked pretty pathetic and I tried my best to nurture it. Moving it to different windows for sunlight, giving it plant food, watering it regularly. But for a good year, it remained emaciated, sterile and without any luster, despite my best efforts.  

There was a lot of change happening around me, too. And I was hibernating a bit myself— holed up and doing nothing much else than writing and working. My relationship of many years finally unraveled in my hands. I was saddened by the loss, but my days went on just the same. My eyes were fixed on the trail I was following, popping my head up occasionally to look around and see where I was (and if I’d made any progress), and then back down and determined. That’s how it continued for awhile, my plant and me, surviving on just what we needed to get by.

I moved to another location, bringing my companion with me. This place was selected for its efficiency, and because it aligned with my overall mentality. All I ever wanted was a space of my own that was quiet and that I could wake up and start my day without any distractions.

The plant found a home in my kitchen for a bit, trying to harness the morning sun that roused me. But ended up beneath my bedroom skylight for the evening light.

Moving in the right direction, with no real burden or obstacle, and no one to dictate where the trail might lead. You can imagine my surprise when someone came along unexpectedly.

I just popped my eyes up and there he was—caring and good company. Willing to tag along with me as he sorted out where he was going too. It all kinda fell in place. And I understood more than ever, something had been missing, that I’d been so preoccupied I had hardly noticed what, until he was looking at me with his kind eyes, as though he had found me. And I just knew he would love me like no other.

Here is my plant today. It’s been just over a year since my graduation, and I see this as a sign for wonderful things ahead.