My mother loved wisteria. The cascades of purple blooms were among her favorites. I planted a wisteria vine some 4 or so years ago, but I figured it was either defective or mislabeled, because though it stretched its tendrils of healthy leaves out to anything it could reach, it had never bloomed. I hadn't gotten around to yanking it out, but it was certainly on my mental chopping block.
A few weeks ago I noticed strange furry pods at the ends of the vines, and then just two weeks ago, it erupted into glorious springtime splendor.
Just like that.
Like it had known how to all along.
Like it was just waiting for the right time.
Like this was what it was created for.
I stood under it, straining my neck to the heavens to appreciate the blooms that spilled out of vine tips far above my head.
There was relief, a sense that finally the plant had figured it out. There was a little bit of awe, too. I mean, after all, it had gone from barren to bursting. This was no little show. This was like the Fourth of July, flower style. I couldn't take a single purple plume. I had to let the plant show it all off, every last, hard earned bloom.
There are people who come into this world who take a long time to get it all figured out.
They go through the motions, struggle through their seasons, and manage to grow.
But somehow they find it hard to bloom-
-to find their way, their peace, their joy, their mission,
That's my Number One Son
(who I am not allowed to blog about)
(so I'm not)
(in case he asks).
He is the bird that hits the window.
He is the snowflake that melts on the way down.
He is the stepping stone in the path that always wobbles.