the way of the late bloom

in the 3 months since my grandmother's next great adventure began, i have thought of her frequently. there have been no tears, only an occasional clutching at my heart. we did right by each other in my first and her last 45 years on this earth. i can think of no regrets.

what i think of now, by her prompting, is the body of creative work she put forth into the world. culinary masterpieces from worn out pots and ancient wooden spoons, hand-knit lace tablecloths the likes of which had never been seen before on american shores, embroidery, hooked rugs, knitting, and gardening. prolific is too soft a word. what began as sanity maintenance as she transitioned to a new country became an expression of her soul. and whatever she created, she shared.

the smallest of my grandmother's orchid collection, now at home with mine, is blooming. it's the sassy one with painted petals. i refrained from staking the stem upright as it grew, instead, allowing it's natural urges to prevail. it is her message to me. now is the time to bloom.

take every creative urge, she says, and run with it. do it all to please yourself and then share it, whether it measures up or not. after all, there is no measure if it has come from the heart.

and so, i am creating. feverishly. behind the scenes for now, as i learn to squelch the demons that have kept my light and my urges dim. i am seeing the ordinary as extraordinary. i am on my knees with gratitude for mother nature and the digital camera. i am drunk on the notion that, with fate and health on my side, this can be the beginning point of my creative body of work. like my grandmother, the output in my later years can be astounding and liberating.

get going, she says. the late bloom is the most robust, filled with great warmth and sass.