The Art of Phlox

How could this sweet flower stir up such resistance?

My dad, Prairie Pa, and I like to go to green houses and buy flowers.  During our latest Flower Factory pilgrimage, he innocently suggested I buy some phlox to enhance my front flower bed.  I exploded - in a way that surprised both of us.  "PHLOX!  But I HATE phlox." 

A former in-law used to plant phlox.  (Actually I never saw her plant phlox, it was just there.  She liked plants that required no care.  Kind of like my neighbor.  Whenever something in her yard dies, she replaces it with a rock.)  The phlox was light purple and scraggly.  It lived its summer life crowded between hostas that needed to be divided and weeds that were never pulled.  

Because Prairie Pa can be very persuasive, I ended up buying some bright pink phlox (Who knew phlox came in different colors?) and planting it in front of my house.  Before putting the phlox in the soil, I stirred slow release fertilizer into the soil.  My pink phlox is pampered.  It is mulched, watered daily, and weeds aren't allowed to get too close.

Days passed and my anger towards an inculpable little flower continued to bother me.  As an almost English major, I chose to look at the phlox metaphorically.  Was the scraggly phlox a married, thirty-something me?  (Granted, it is a simple metaphor, but I have been out of college a long time.)  A style-less, voiceless young woman planted in the wrong place.  

A snack I would never make for my own children.

This was the point in my life when I wore twin sets, tiny earrings, and (gasp) slacks  I brought Jello molds to family functions even though I hated Jello.  (WAIT.  Scratch that.  I haven't always been a Jello hater.  Remember Knox Blox?  A great sugary snack that I would never make my kids.)

I remember thinking, Well this is how it is.  I make Jello molds I won't eat.  I wear slacks because I don't know what else to wear.  And I get most of my thoughts from Oprah (Some things never change).  I was driven by a sense of duty rather than joy.  

• I made lunches.
• I pushed strollers.
• I scrubbed floors.
• I nurtured everyone except me. (Which was the big mistake because I became a martyr.) 

Spoiler:  my marriage ended.  I was caught off guard.  Looking back, it shouldn't have surprised me.  Neither of us were being authentic.  One of us wanted to create art and soul search and one of us wanted to ride a motorcycle.  

Divorce is brutal.  Yes, it is very common, but that doesn't make it easy or a path that people want to walk down.  It was the death of a dream and a two parent household.  It was the death of "til death do us part".  I got through the divorce years with the help of wonderful friends and family.  

In case you know someone going through a divorce, here is a very partial list of how my friends and family helped me:

• letting me cry  - the ugly cry
• selling my old house and moving me and the kids into a new house
• watching my kids
• bringing me Starbucks
• looking at my bills and setting up a budget
• sending me cards
• reminding me to act with integrity and love
• showing me how to start a lawn mower
• telling me I was lovable and that I could move on
•  . . . and on and on 

Isn't it beautiful?

Perhaps my pink phlox is me now.   I am good with this metaphor. 

Prairie Eydie