Seeing the bloom

I inherited a dwarf day lily from my sister-in-law several weeks ago.

She shared it and I got it in the ground quickly.

I expected nothing this year. I only planned to get the roots in the dirt so that the bulbs could hibernate all winter and the plant could bloom next year.

But look.

Despite, the yellowing green there is a bloom.

Two actually.

And it is not the limp greenery that grabs my attention.

I am astounded that this plant, 75% dead, is willing to bloom and blossom at all.

I only hoped this plant would find a new home in this new spot in the dirt.

I expected no more.

At this season of my life, at 54 and living with #ovariancancer, my perspective has shifted.

I can see the yellow and the dying leaves right alongside the bloom and not think they are a blight, or an error, or an eyesore but just part of this plant making a new home, fatigued by the effort, and not yet ready to bloom all over.

Today, I can appreciate each bloom, the exquisite effort and miracle of life in less than optimal conditions.

When I was younger, I would have looked at this plant, next to the other, and seen what it was lacking or what it might one day become.

I would have apologized for my unfinished garden and failed to appreciate the work of a transplant and the gift of life from someone else’s garden now living in mine.

No more.

Now I can and do appreciate more.

At 54, I don’t compare this plant to the others in the garden.

I don’t rank or weigh the scents, colors, or textures.

I appreciate the pink peony but don’t consider her superior.

I rub my hands on the lavender plants but don’t think less of the bushes or plants that are less fragrant.

Can I be so easy with myself and other people?

Can I value effort and essence?

I can almost, though not quite, stop trying to solve the problems of my own self, whether it be the lifelong cellulite or the more recent side effects of cancer.

I can almost, though not quite, accept my own voracious appetite, argumentative mind, and curious nature.

To say I’m fully surrendered would be a lie but I do have moments of bliss.

I have transformed.

I can almost, though not quite, let go of the critical way I look at myself and others and the world.

It has taken work to stop noticing what is wrong, lacking, less than, or imperfect.

And I am rewarded for my efforts.

I am more capable than ever of trusting, seeing beauty, of chasing wonder.

It’s not that there is no fear, but that the other side of the see saw is heavy with hope, love, and gratitude.

I am freed up to see, feel, and appreciate more than I was able to do when younger or healthier.

While I am not grateful to cancer I accept the shifts that have come along with my diagnosis.