I have a thing for red flowers. Not roses, necessarily, but more everyday kinds of flowers: red geraniums, red tulips, red salvia. This summer I potted a red begonia on my front porch. Nestled in between the door and my favorite porch chair, I couldn’t help but see it every day. It bloomed all summer long. It’s still blooming now, and it’s November. I have no idea why. I call it my God plant.
Where do we go from here? That is the question on my heart as we turn the corner on the pandemic. We have survived something of significance together. It’s going to take some time to figure out what we carry with us and what we leave behind. In this in-between space, I offer you this story from years ago as a gentle reminder that the essence of who we are (even after 15 months of isolation, hand sanitizer, and loss) is still with us.
“Ant!” my four-year old son yells as he grabs two empty yogurt containers from a bottom drawer in the kitchen. He turns and runs back to the ant, placing the containers on the floor and trying dutifully to coax the ant into one of them. I taught him how to save ants when we had a massive infestation in my kitchen last spring.
It’s so easy to get lost. One way streets, 3-way intersections, angle streets, bowl-full-of-spaghetti streets—it doesn’t make much difference. One turn and suddenly I no longer know where I am. Or where I’ve been, let alone, how to get to where I need to go. A familiar panic starts to set in.