Pots, Plants and Other Thoughts for My Daughter
Sitting outside under the stars on an early March evening is one of the benefits of living in the desert. In July, when other parts of the country are reveling in fire flies and 4th of July sparklers and we are gasping for a breeze in 100+ degree temperatures at 10:30 PM, I will not feel such generosity of spirit. But for tonight, the air is balmy and desert skies are dreamy under the light of Venus and a myriad of other heavenly hosts.
With my feet propped up on an ottoman, my gaze moves from Venus downward, toward a pot of newly planted flowers. The wonder of unfurling petals, the promise of tightly held buds, and lacy green leaves contrasts sharply against the worn pot that contains this slip of life. Frankly, the pot has seen better days. But I would rather part with my right arm than this beat up old pot.
The pot is garish; green paint chipping away from red terra cotta. Red and pink splotches form Van Gogh-styled flowers with yellow dots forming their centers. The paint is peeling, water and seasons of searing summer heat and winter’s freezing cold wearing through its carnival exterior. It is something only a mother can love.
My daughter painted this pot for me on an early spring afternoon more than 10 years ago. She was not quite 8-years-old. Before her nearly life-ending stay at Phoenix Children’s Hospital due to a medical emergency that gave her a less than two percent survival rate. Before my divorce and re-marriage to Dennis. Before his sudden death due to cancer three years later. Before the housing market collapsed and I lost the home we had shared. Before I started over by purchasing and remodeling a foreclosed home in the West Valley. Before all the moments that seem both a moment away and lifetime ago.
In more ways that you can know, Megan, this pot bridges the span between the life before and the life that now exists. I remember your little fingers working diligently to create beauty only seen through the eyes of a little girl. I remember the sparkle in your eyes, the smile on your face, when you gave me the gift of your heart contained in the brushstrokes of this masterpiece. I remember the pride that shone in your eyes when I took it home and planted it with summer vincas. I remember all the seasons that came after, when I replaced old flowers with new ones, on new patios in new homes – made new beauty and new memories – with you and your handcrafted pot at the center of each new space.
Tonight, I sit on the patio that will likely be the last one you list as your childhood home. Your pot is next to me, holding another round of blooms for yet another season of life. Like the flowers I have nurtured, you have blossomed. You are beautiful, vibrant, full of promise and potential. I show you off every chance I get, the most prized and cherished of all my cultivations. You have already weathered more seasons than most can – or will – endure. Those storms have created strong stock. You will bloom, not because of where you’re planted, but in spite of it. And you will bring beauty, elegance, and happiness into the lives of all you grace.
In every sense of the word, you are being transplanted into a bigger pot – a larger world – before my eyes. Your roots are spreading, reaching, anchoring. I can only imagine the beauty and shelter you will offer the generations to come. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
But I suppose that’s why the little pot you gave me all those years ago is more precious to me than ever before. I can still hold it in my hands – still trace the brushstrokes your fingers made that early spring day. In your pot, I can still nurture tiny blossoms of beauty while watching your own take root in a new pot you’re creating just for you. It’s a masterpiece your mother loves.