A couple of weeks ago I drafted a blog post about flowers– how everything was blooming around me. My small wedding was taking shape with the most badass second line you could imagine. My house sold the first week I had put it on the market, at full asking price. The contractors for the new house were finally ready to break ground. But I couldn’t quite get the tone of the post right (was I bragging? Who cares anyway?) so I never shared it.
Yesterday, my buyers backed out (would they even have jobs?). I can’t really blame them. I’ve lost a huge chunk of income for the next three months (at least). My wedding will certainly be put on hold or we will opt for vows but no “wedding”. The house? The one we’ve been dreaming about and designing in our heads and hearts for years now? We very well may have to go in another direction.
This is the part where I put the “first world problem” disclaimer in. But even though she’s social distancing states away, I’ve got my therapist friend Sidney’s voice in my head: It’s okay to be upset.
This is my soil, my dirt. Maybe it is small, but I’m trusting that it’s fertile. I am trusting that just as years ago, beauty burst forth from the mud of divorce and financial hardship, beauty will bloom here too. So I’m asking myself, shitty as this is: What is going to bloom here? (Truthfully I’m also pleading “and when?”)
I can almost already see it. Almost. It looks a little like today’s painting, a big one– one the size of a spirited seven year old.
Flowers. Still painting flowers.
In good times and in bad. In sickness and in health.