Hothouse Flower

            It’s a lot easier for me to be solid enough to feel good and to help others when conditions around me are consistent and controlled.  I like my house, my bed, and my breakfast routine.  I like my morning, afternoon, and evening activities. 

            I can’t think of any kind of party, event, or travel destination (except Big Sur) that has more allure for me than where I normally live and what I normally do.  I don’t want to admit that, it’s not how I want to be, but it’s how I am these days.  Seemingly overnight I’ve gone from world-beating warrior to hothouse flower.

            These days, in the evenings, it’s mac and cheese for Ax, a salad with chicken for me, and bean and kale soup for Mike.  Afterwards, Ax performs a jumping show in the living room while Mike and I have some conversation about self-actualization or the concern of the day (usually mine) and why staying the course, once again, makes sense, and probably will not lead to bankruptcy, homelessness, ostracism, obesity, fatal illness, or Ax’s eventual incarceration or insanity.  At least not for now.

            We look at our house, so cozy and comfortable, our child, completely himself, and our love, strengthened by trials, differences, and our commitment to each other, and we are grateful.  Then we all get some television before bedtime rituals, brushing, flossing, bathing, peeing, reading, chatting, snuggling, and lights out.   

            Sometimes we mix it up.  Some nights Ax likes pasta marinara rather than mac and cheese.  Once in a while we skip the bath in favor of more time for playing “on dry land.”  And we’ll rally, we’ll travel, we’ll even stay up past bedtime for someone we love or someone in need.  But then it’s back to the hothouse for me.  I’m not a weed or a wildflower it turns out.  I’m an orchid, and I deserve a chance to bloom.