I think I am finally whole again.
I’ve baptized myself in the sea during a thunderstorm and I’ve screamed to the universe atop a mountain at sunset. I’ve discussed feminism at the dinner table with strangers from four separate continents. I’ve cried on buses. I’ve even made love under the milky way.
I suppose that maybe I’ve been whole this entire time. Perhaps all I needed was a new place to call home.
I can’t stop thinking about houseplants. Last year, back in New York, mine were dying in the winter months. I didn’t blame them for their lack of flowers.
Instead, I moved them to a new windowsill where there was unobstructed sunlight. I gave them a bit more water in the evenings and I cut their dead leaves in the mornings so that new ones could grow in their place.
Why didn’t I treat myself with the same compassion and patience as I did with my beloved succulents?
Why did I blame myself for not sprouting blossoms when my environment wasn’t conducive to flourishing?
I like that I feel small in the mountains. I like that being alone here is unanimously viewed as an act of self-care and not a cry for help.
I like that I can be still. I like that everyone I meet is chasing eternal youth- regardless of how many trips around the sun they’ve taken.
I never want this feeling to go away. I want to think about houseplants forever.
I will give myself sunshine and water. And, if at any point my environment no longer serves me, I will muster up the courage to find a new windowsill.
