“neither of us were meant to survive.”
the thought crosses my mind before i can stop it.
not that i want to. stop it, i mean. why would i?
it’s a true thought.
the cool spring air is blowing through my apartment — the glass door pushed back as far as it can open. i can smell the leftovers of my birthday poppies, as the small selection that haven’t died entirely wilt on my dining table. still cute, though. the flowers remind me of my party on the weekend. the people who came out to celebrate. the fact that i turn thirty tomorrow. it feels like a milestone and a non-event all at once.
“neither of us were meant to survive, were we.”
i let the thought sink in a little further, rubbing the leaf of my fiddle-leaf fig as i stare out across my suburb. the sun is shining. cars are moving on the road below. the world is still moving, while i am paused. in this moment. having an impossible moment of clarity.
my fiddle-leaf sits on the outside of the door, just on the balcony. not too close to the sun, but still outdoors. she gets enough air, enough light, and when i’m on my a-game, enough water. i repotted her for the first time a month ago. i really should have done it sooner. i bought her in 2018 when she was barely a metre high, roots sticking out the end of her too-small pot. she was on discount at a West End plant store: $30. probably because she had no branches. she was just one, spindly tree, with a few leaves on top. she was $30 because they really didn’t think much of her. i guess they didn’t value the lack of aesthetic she provided. i guess they didn’t expect her to survive. i guess she wasn’t meant to survive. she certainly wasn’t built for the conditions.
she took her place, initially, in my office at my christian-college-job. i had all of my favourite possessions there. it really should have been a red-flag earlier that i didn’t want to keep the things i loved most at my own house. she moved with me from there, to the house of my new-at-the-time squeeze. then, to my apartment when i moved out alone for the first time. now, she’s here with me and my partner in our little West End apartment/home.
isn’t it funny that she came back to just two-blocks away from where i picked her up for the first time?
she towers almost a metre over me now. i finally gave her a bigger pot so her roots don’t stick out the bottom. killing it. she still doesn’t have much in the way of branches, but she has a beautiful bunch of leaves. she grew. she’s still growing, i think.
i’m still growing, too. we have that in common.
i’m turning thirty tomorrow so naturally, i am reflecting. i am rubbing the leaf of my fiddle-leaf fig and thinking about how she was never really meant to survive.
i am thinking about the ways i was never meant to make it either. the odds were stacked against both of us, really.
i am thinking of the last five years. the last ten. the last 29.99. the many revolutions i have seen. the many places i have moved: physically, mentally, spiritually, emotionally.
i think of all the ways i have died during those years. letting a part of myself fall into the ocean. letting a part of myself go. having pieces of my sense of self torn away. sometimes by choice. sometimes by the hand of another.
i think of all the ways i have lived during those years, as well. birthed again and again. the ways i have emerged from the ocean. found myself under the layers torn away. held onto the parts of myself that mattered most — always my own choice. life was always a choice i made. a rising again. a choosing forward. it’s not always that easy, and it wasn’t as easy as “i chose it, woo”. but you get the idea, huh?
i think about the relationships that have changed. the ones that have grown and the ones that have wilted — like the poppies on the table, really. i think about the moments of magic enshrined in the chaos of the everyday. the little magic moments i have sought out since i was a child. the moments of magic i seek out, still.
and there’s one thing that is true, now more than ever.
i am not afraid of myself anymore.
i am not afraid of this world.
i am not afraid of what it will do to me if i fail. i have failed. each time, i have risen again. i have chosen life again.
i have a spacious room within myself, where i can dig my roots down deep. i am no longer held by the small notions, the tiny plastic pots, that i have very much outgrown. and thankfully i don’t have to wait for my little sparkly brain to repot myself, ya know?
i have shed the skins. i have drowned out the voices. i have stood on my feet again. i’m turning thirty and living the life i dreamed of years ago. i barely dared dream that this is where i’d be.
and here i fucking am.
here’s to my resilient fucker of a fiddle leaf. and here’s to thirty, bbs.
— and many more reflections to come, i’m sure.
+ playlist tracks for the mood:
Bigger Man — Joy Oladukun
Big God — Florence and the Machine
Where Do All The Good Kids Go? — Maddie Zahm
oh GOD — Orla Gartland
or check the full playlist on spotify:
you’re welcome.
Love these reflections. Here’s to surviving, and to 30!