The short irises

The green stem cracks its way out of the cold wintery ground. The fresh tender green leaves full of promise, contrast the dry dead mulch around it. Holding the promise of spring, my irises begin to bloom. I am beyond delighted.

I think of fall and how I barely managed to get the bulbs in. Well, a good chunk of them at least. Serves me right, to get a warehouse size bag of bulbs from Costco. Why couldn’t I buy a mere dozen from a garden store?

But again, thinking of beautiful purple-petaled beauties, keeps my knees planted to the ground. For years, I have wanted irises in the yard. My determined look and general ineptitude with the shovel, elicits my husband’s help. I see a sea of irises (okay more like a few clumps), waving elegantly on tall stems, turning my garden into a spring paradise.

I put the bulbs in. I mostly forget about them. As also the spots where I plant them. Till the earth cracks and the leaves pop out.

The irises arrive. Tiny irises. Short irises. I look at them puzzled.  

Sure, you’re sweet and pretty. But where are my long stemmed beauties?

I can’t bring myself to completely accept these as mine. The irises in my mind are tall and imposing, after all. I wonder if I did something wrong. Did I not plant them deep enough, should I have added some special iris food? Did I get the wrong kind? There are kinds…?

Surely, these can’t be mine. Yet they are. Each time I look at them, I feel a strange simultaneous twinge of happy and sad. 

Quietly, I wonder how many short irises there have been in my life.

The short irises are indeed delicate and pretty, on their own accord. Yet, not what I was expecting. Had I set my expectation so high, that I can no longer bring myself to love their shorter counterparts?

Worse yet, I secretly admonish myself for my unfair treatment of the short irises. These pretty irises deserve so much more, so much better. 

They are pretty and dainty and their petals make the same perfect formation. So what if they are not a reflection of what my mind held? They are perfect in their own way. Who am I do decide how they should be? Why should it even be this big an effort to accept them the way I would have the tall elegant ones. Am I shallow, judgemental, or simply stubborn?

I decide I am neither. My tiny short irises are perfect. Once I am no longer hung up on the tall ones. Once I can shift my focus on the beauty of the short irises, rather than their lack, which is really not even their lack in the first place, but more a perception of a lack in my eyes.

They may not be what I was expecting. But they’re gorgeous and precious on their own. And it remains up to me to choose between enjoying my short irises to the very fullest, or hankering for the long stemmed ones. I hope I will make the right choice.

Again, I wonder how many short irises there have been in my life.

Here’s to giving each short iris its own place and worth… here’s to noticing and enjoying its beauty… one short iris at a time…

Things are trying to happen… do we simply let them?

March 2017

I wait in line at the bakery. I ask for sourdough bread. As he takes it away to slice, I eye the latte dunker that I often get for my kid. It’s a favorite. I think of getting it, the thought slides, I pay for the bread. The lady behind the counter asks me,

“Would you like a latte dunker? Looks like this one didn’t get enough of the top layer. It’s yummy all the same. ”

I stare at her. I watch her pack the freshly baked, sticky rectangle of goodness, my face incredulous. I laugh as I take the brown bag, I thank her (I hope) I’m still a little taken aback by the synchronicity of thoughts and events.

June 2016

Two tiny figlets (?? I think it’s the perfect name – and I’m sticking with it) appear on the fig tree. I am excited for the tree and me and summer.

There’s always something reassuring about the reappearance of things. Especially pleasant ones. Okay, only pleasant ones.

The year before, we had a whopping four figs on the tree. I am happy with my two. Each time I am in the yard, I peek beneath the beautiful fig leaves, to say hello and to check on them. By now a third has appeared. Life is good. I made a mental note to keep an eye, to allow them to sun-ripen on the tree, to make sure I pick them just in time – before they fall off, or before the birds, (who I believe, already have designs on them) get them. Yes. The mental list gets longer. I get more involved. Hmm…

July 2016

Overnight, the fig tree is laden with tiny green fruit. Hundreds of figlets, everywhere. The tree is exploding.

I shake my head thinking, ‘’The poor suckers don’t stand a chance – Turkish figs take long to ripen. Summer will be long gone before they can turn purple. Poor things. Sigh…”

I focus all attention on my my first, second and third-borns.  I watch them get plumper and darker – my sun-kissed beauties. One gets pecked by birds and falls to the ground. I leave it on the ground for the birds to eat. The remaining two are sweet and pulpy, velvety and delicious. (My kid won’t touch it, of course).

I pay no more attention to the fig tree or the green figlets.

August 2016

We return from vacation. I potter in the yard, when suddenly, I notice bees on the top branch of the fig tree. They are attacking a plump fig that looks like it’s going to burst open at the seams. The tree is full of purple figs awaiting their fate -- either be picked or be plagued by bees.

I marvel at the tree and the fruits and the warm warm summer. I think of the attention I gave to the three figs, and the complete lack thereof to their siblings. 

Yet there they are. Juicy and succulent in their purple glory. Waiting for me to pick them. Something about them seemed effortless and easy.   

Just when I was not looking, just as I let go of all expectations, nature decides to give me a sweet gift. And to everyone who stopped by our place those couple of weeks.

September 2016

Back to school shopping for my kid. The list says a pouch with a three-hole-punch. I think a clear one will be better so she can see the zillion things stuffed inside. Only, there isn’t a clear one in the store. There’s blue and purple and pink and yellow, paisley and cartoon prints. No plain clear one. I can see the one she’s picked packed choc a bloc. I see its contents tumbling out as her fingers dive in to get an eraser. I suggest we get one from another store or look online.  

“No mom, this is fine,” she picks one. I look some more. I offer to take her to another store yet again. Finally I decide to care less and let it go.

The following week, we get a packet from Amazon. In it lies a clear pouch with three-hole-punches. My husband had ordered something, and this is what they sent, accidentally. Freaky, you say? My reaction, totally, in a happy kinda way.

He calls Amazon and they tell him they will ship his cables. When he asks about returning the pouch, they tell him to just keep it. It costs all of two dollars and it’s not worth the shipping costs.

I laugh and shake my head in disbelief. “Maybe we should stop watching Stranger Things,” he quips.  

I insist my kid use the pouch that “the universe has sent our way in mysterious ways”.  

“Sure,” she shrugs. She is just as fine with the other one.

Now I don’t particularly think of myself as a “lucky” person. At times, it seems like bad luck seems to dog me quite faithfully.

But just we aren’t looking, it seems like things are trying to happen happen the way we want them to – more often than we think. Perhaps they get lost in the noise of our daily lives.

Perhaps I need to have a little chat with the Universe. The latte dunker is really great, but truly, there are other areas where I could possibly use more assistance. Sigh… the Universe wants me to figure those things out for myself.

These are random stories. You will have yours when you notice them. And when we do notice them, it is a wondrous thing… Just when we’re not looking. Just when we let go, let up, things happen, with a beautiful synchronicity and serendipity… and we simply have to let them…

Angry kitty

I skip home from school. Beyond excited. My four-year-self is very aware there is a teeny tiny kitten waiting for me at home.

Every cell in my body is beaming and exploding with excitement. So ready to love this tiny being. I can see our many fun days together. I can’t wait to meet her.

I’m told she’s hiding in the alcove of our old desk. This solid wood desk has a deep alcove and she’s found refuge in its dark recess.

My little feet cannot contain the excitement. My little heart cannot contain the love.

I get down on my knees and crawl into the alcove, close to the kitty, huddled and shivering in the corner. My biggest smile. My sweetest voice. My excited hands trying to touch her.

She hisses. Loudly. Angrily. Fiercely. Maybe she scratches me. I don’t remember. All I remember is her anger and sheer rejection. The pain of rejection.   

Scared, surprised, heartbroken, I move back. Possibly bumping my head against the roof of the table. It wouldn’t be the first or last time, anyhow.

I am devastated. How can a kitty so fragile, so sweet, be so full of anger and hatred towards me? I am to be her best friend. Doesn’t she know it?

All I want to do is to love her and she somehow can’t bear the sight of me.
At four, or at forty even, we are sometimes unable to see the story (or fear) on the other side.

Perhaps memory is a wise and devious charlatan. Perhaps stories have a strange way of reappearing in our lives. Perhaps they have a reason for reappearing – a possible raison d’etre even, who knows. Not quite sure why this one pops in my mind. But it won’t leave. Till I write it down perhaps.

It does however make me marvel at the innate and immeasurable capacity to heal and to forgive and to continue to love unconditionally. No matter the treatment? To continue to believe determinedly, doggedly even, in what a child wants the truth to be. To maintain optimism in that truth.

If so, I wish I could be my four-year-old self.

Children have such huge amazing reserves of forgiveness, such deep capacities to love unconditionally.

And although I don’t remember the ensuing chain of events -- if I went crying to someone older, wiser; if I was consoled; if I kept it all inside, not breathing a word, (sounds most likely) refusing to admit it ever happened; if I was wary for a while… who knows.

What I do know is that one determined four-year-old was convinced to be this kitten’s best friend.   
What I do know is that I absolutely mauled that kitty with an outpouring of my love (poor kitty!). I put the hurt and pain and the scratches aside. We had those many happy days together. I was indeed her best friend.
Well, at least in my version and memory of the story. She may have an entirely different story to tell. Love and torture (ahem..) may be used interchangeably given a four-year-old and her kitty. Oh well…

As we age, is it still possible to put pain, and harsh words and anger (and fears) of others completely aside, as a four-year-old is able to do. No cynicism, no apprehension, no hurt and pain-gone-stale and sour.

There is after all, the matter of “learning from our mistakes”, and “rationality” and “wisdom” and “fairness” and “boundaries” – all good things no doubt and essential.  

Yet, I doubt the four-year-old uses any of those.  

Simply because she has complete faith in her own love. Simply because she knows what she wants, knows what is important to her. Simply so certain in her conviction of it (despite a vivid memory of the hissing), she will put everything aside and start afresh… and afresh… and afresh.

Wise or foolish?