Throughout the past several months since my husband left, I’ve had to start afresh in multiple areas
of my life. For a long while, it felt like every place I found myself,
every decision with which I was faced, and every experience I encountered was
uncharted territory. I had no idea what I was doing in nearly every aspect of this
new, single life. My world seemed to be a haphazard experiment in which I was constantly
clearing fresh paths from chaos with little more than guess work while hoping for
the best.
Somehow, though, I have actually managed to accomplish quite a bit.
I’m very proud of many recent victories, and I’d like to eventually share some specifics
on this blog. But until then, just know that I spent many moons lost, gingerly
feeling my way through unfamiliar lands in the dark.
And then a year passed.
I fervently longed for that magical time warp, constantly thinking,
“I can’t wait until a year has passed, so this won’t be the first time,
anymore.” I wished I had already approached and conquered it all at least once before;
then I could have easily known how to handle it again. Every new first time was so overwhelming, stressful, scary, and sad. There was the first Super Bowl without my husband to eat my chili-cheese dip; would I still
make it? (Yes. I liked it, too. But I cried.) There was the first renewal of my zoo
membership without my hubs to hold my hand as we strolled toward the elephants;
would I still carry the pass? (Nope. Not as fun to go alone. So I cried.) There was the first Grammy Awards show without my best friend to enjoy the music performances
with; would I still watch it? (Yes, but with a different, female friend. And
she let me cry.) There was the first spring season without the man of the house to tackle
the landscaping; would I still plant flowers? (Yes. I loved having them, and
they made me so happy, that I don’t even think I cried.) And on and on and on.
Discovering what life
looks like when I can’t depend on a partner, as well as who I am as an
individual woman has been a difficult process. I’ve had to learn how to
handle a budget and prioritize purchases on my own. I’ve had to figure out how
to accurately operate a weed eater with my short stature. I’ve had to ask a
friend how to replace the dead crape myrtle in my front yard. Among
many.other.things.
But I successfully mastered all of these things, y’all! And
more. I was determined to grow independent and prove to myself that I could survive
on my own. I was frequently scared, overwhelmed, and stressed. I cried often. Like,
for real, often. But I continued to trudge through the muck into my New Normal. Every day felt like a strenuous journey. Every week was a maze
navigated alone. I learned a lot about myself as I discovered
parts of me I had never realized were present. I gradually carved a new, independent version of Mindy out of the
blob left behind by stupid divorce. I don’t necessarily regret or begrudge this
experience; it has been and will continue to be very beneficial for me. But it's certainly an exhausting
challenge, and I didn’t feel like there would ever be any relief from the
effort it took to survive and to settle into this new, single version of myself
that I never dreamed of or desired.
But then that first year finally passed, and spring came
again. I entered into this new weather season for the second time with greater
confidence. Thanks to the tests and practice of the previous year, I now trusted myself and my capabilities.
I knew better what to expect from my yard. I was adept at mowing the grass. I
had come to terms with weed eating enough to realize I needed to purchase a
lighter trimmer that features a neck with an adjustable height. (Did you know
they make those!?) And I knew how to plant flowers on my porch. I had
done it all before.
The porch flowers.
Those were the things that made me feel at home in my life for the first time
in over a year. They were the first time I actually recognized the New Me. They
were finally something familiar after the rebuilding had begun.
Last year, the flowers were a big decision. My husband’s
absence was still counted in days and weeks instead of months or years. When
flowering time came around, I was still dying and gasping for breath. I was
drowning in sadness and suffocating under heavy darkness. I was terrified; I
was hurting; and I was broke. I had done nothing at all except survive since the day he
walked out the door. If something was voluntary or “extra,” I didn’t do it. I
didn’t have the energy, strength, confidence, skills, or finances to do
anything that was not completely essential to make it through to the next day.
But it grew warmer outside, and my heart broke to not
have pretty flowers on my porch. I missed my spouse, and I also missed the
flowers he physically and financially provided my house every spring. I was
tired of having to miss everything. It felt like my whole life was in a
constant state of painful longing and heartbreak.
I wanted the flowers, but I didn’t know how to plant them. I
wanted them, but I didn’t know which ones would work in the area. I wanted
them, but I didn’t think I could afford them or fit them into my rudimentary
budget. I wanted the flowers, but they were extra, a luxury that wasn’t
required for my daily survival. I wanted the flowers, but accepting the truth
of the situation was painful.
But damn it all, I wanted the flowers.
I didn’t have any control over whether or not my husband was
in my life, but I did have control over whether or not my porch was bare, and I ultimately decided I would have none of that! Living without him didn’t mean I had to also live without
all of the things he did that made me happy.
So I got them. On my
own. By myself.
And it was
empowering.
I didn’t know what I was doing at all. I spent hours at the
Lowe’s gardening center comparing colors, sun exposure, growing habits, and
prices. I asked employees tons of basic questions. I shopped at Dollar General for
pots, potting soil, and coco liners for my hanging baskets in an effort to stretch
my budget.
And then I brought it all home and guessed. I didn’t have
any practice. This was something my husband always did. But I wung it. And I
must have succeeded, because they all lived and bloomed for many months.
I know that to many, this is so simple that it seems silly.
And I get that. That’s fair. But for me, this was massive. It was the first
time I voluntarily ventured out in pursuit of personal joy. I didn’t wait around for someone else to satisfy me or provide permission or consent. I independently
decided the pleasures that flowers provided my life were worth the money, effort,
and challenge. That I was worth it. This was the first time I made my happiness a
priority, even though it didn’t benefit anyone but me. And in doing so, I claimed a part of my power and defined an
edge of my identity. It was a big deal, and it felt good.
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| 2014 Spring Flowers |
I enjoyed those flowers all spring and summer and well into
the autumn of 2014. I lovingly nurtured them by watering, rotating, and pruning
them regularly. I invested my time, energy, and heart into my beautiful, blooming
plants. All the while, I was solidifying
aspects of my personhood. I was settling into the New Mindy right there on my front porch.
As winter 2015 faded, there was no question of whether or
not I would plant flowers on my porch. Of course I would. This time, I didn’t
have to wonder if I was the type of person who planted flowers to welcome spring, because I had already decided that about myself the preceding year. This was one of the first situations I came
across where I could easily rely on my previous experience rather than having
to start from scratch in the decision making process of who I was. It was such a relief.
My dad was visiting over Easter
weekend, and knowing how important my flowers are to me, he volunteered to
cover their cost, which was a massive blessing from the beginning. Since I
didn’t have to stress about the strain they put on my budget, I could simply
enjoy the ceremony of welcoming the new season and beautifying my porch. And even
though I had done it before, this year, I still spent hours in the Lowe’s
gardening center comparing colors, sun exposure, growing habits, and prices. However,
this time I wasn’t stressed or anxious. I didn’t beat myself up for being such
an idiot and not knowing what I was doing. I didn’t feel out of my league or
overwhelmed. I wasn’t lost or in over my head. I had confidence in myself, understanding that this was simply my process.
Some other people may do it quicker or be more certain going in, but this is
how I pick out my flowers. And that’s okay. I knew that whatever I picked would
become the backdrop for my entire summer, and I wanted to choose wisely. I was
able to rest in that detail of my identity. (Thankfully, my dad was very patient
with me.)
Once we brought the budding plants home, I slipped into my
gardening gloves, dove into the dirt, and joyfully repotted all of them. I put each
in its respective place across the entire front porch area and one on the back
patio (to be enjoyed when I let my pup outside), admired my handiwork, and felt
great about accomplishing a task I love. That was that. I was proud of a job
well done. The end.
 |
| 2015 Spring - back patio flowers and front door |
However, unbeknownst to me at the time, my favorite part wouldn’t come until a couple days later when I would go out front to
revisit and water all of my new blooms for the first time since potting them. Early
in the morning, I knowingly filled the watering can at the spigot near my porch
like I had done so many times the year before. And as I filled each plant with
water, my heart simultaneously filled up with some sort of emotional nourishment.
By the time I was climbing my step ladder to reach the hanging plants (yes, I’m
that short), I noticed something happening inside of me that I couldn’t
pinpoint but immediately welcomed. I was content. I was fulfilled. I was at
peace. I was at home.
 |
| 2015 Spring |
After I watered the last colorful plant, I sat down on my rocking
chair and curiously ventured deeper into the experience. What sensation was I
feeling? What was it about watering my porch plants that made me feel so
satisfied? I sat in the emotion, embraced the feeling, and explored it in my
heart and mind.
And then it hit me: This
was familiar. This activity. This action. This scenario. This chore done in
love. This environment which brings me joy. This situation. This person that
loves to care for flowers on her porch. This Mindy.
 |
| 2015 Spring |
For the first time,
the New Me was familiar. I recognized her. I had seen her before. I had
come to know her last spring. This familiarity of myself was so comforting.
I was finally
starting to find myself. To identify myself. I was no longer searching in
the dark and hoping for the best to come out of guess work and trial-and-error.
This was me. This was the New Me. And for
the very first time, the New Me wasn’t new. It was tried and true. Tested
and proved. This was me.
This is me.
 |
| 2015 Spring |
That morning after I watered 2015’s spring plants for the
first time, I cried tears of happiness, as if I was visiting an old friend after
years apart. I was so glad to finally see myself again. It had been so long
just wandering around in the dark searching for me. And then, all of the sudden, spring came along and brought with it New
Mindy, who was finally, finally, just
Mindy.
Oh, that feels good. Let me just sit here in this for a
moment… *deep breaths soaking it in while tears form in my eyes*
#writingtrulyismytherapy
 |
| My beautiful house, Spring 2015 |
I’m looking forward to more of 2015, which I pray will
present more familiarity of my New Normal. I’m continuing to identify aspects
of my personhood and further define my identity as an individual.
My porch flowers were the first reassurance that I’m doing
okay. I’m going to make it. I’m a real person. I’m a whole human being. I have
actual characteristics and qualities that make me me, and I’m not just a
shadow. I’ve survived a horrible year of pain and breaking and rebuilding from
pieces, and I haven’t died. I’ve come
back around to things I’ve experienced on this side of the fracture. I’m
starting to think maybe there is life to be had on this side of the break, too.
And it seems as though the Mindy who exists on this side is
a woman who will welcome every spring by spending hours in the Lowe’s gardening
center and then intentionally filling her life with beauty and joy.
I think I might like
this Mindy.
