violet

blooming isn't a one time event

“It’s pretty easy to please,” she says, handing me the little pot, “water, sunshine, you know the drill.”

After killing two succulents and a cactus, I am less than confident. “No, really,” she insists. “It’s getting ready to bloom, you’ll love it!”

I accept her gift with the smile you give a barista who hands you the atrociously misspelled version of your name on a cup.

But later I feel a strange connection to the plant; I am about to bloom, too. After a surprisingly tumultuous entry into marriage, motherhood, and career, I am finally settling into life with two young boys and a fledgling marriage. Maybe this violet and I can work things out.

Two months later the world turns upside down as my husband accepts a new position in small-town middle America. We say our goodbyes to our friends and students in Denver, and I pack up boxes of toys, tools, and towels as the delicate purple flowers on my plant wilt and shrivel. We pick out and purchase a fixer-upper and my husband moves ahead of the boys and me to rip out dated wood paneling and linoleum floors.

Eventually my mom and I drive across two state lines, my boys singing along to Daniel Tiger in the backseat and the African Violet on my lap. Once in our new home I place it on the kitchen table by a big window. For years nothing happens. It doesn’t die but it doesn’t grow or bloom.

All around the violet, however, things are changing. We finish the floors, walls, electricity, bathrooms, and basement. The rooms fill up with friends, family, more children. The children grow, their shouts echoing through the house as they slam the 75 year-old-doors.

I stay at home and dapple in baking, gardening, and laundry. I take on part-time work and love it. Deep roots sink into the community and I feel settled. One afternoon I consider my little potted plant. Into my Google search bar I type “African Violet.” A few clicks and scrolls later I am on a mission. I hang the little pot in a new place: filtered light facing the rising sun. Within weeks, the tiniest little buds appear. I try not to get too excited, but check on it every day nonetheless. The blooms are beautiful, and even before they wilt the next set of buds appears. Gorgeous, fat, delicate flowers explode through the hardy green leaves in continous sucession.

Eventually it outgrows the little pot. I know what needs to happen but I dread this. What if repotting is what kills it? What if I damage the roots? I take the violet out to the backyard. I pour potting soil and gently ease the compacted roots into the bigger space. After a thorough watering, I hang it back in the window and wait.

Months go by and life is upended again as my husband is pursues another career change. This move is a long time coming: years of late night conversations coming to fruition. I know this needs to happen, but I have fears. Our light is changing and we will uproot. I walk around the kitchen, noting what will come with us, what will be sold, what will be stored. I notice, then, the tiny unfolding, deep under the leaves. The blooms return.