Going the Way of Climbing Bougainvillea

I’m worn thin. Bone dry. Hollowed out. Aching for our world. And I’m a mother of teenagers.

Every day I’m challenged to shift my way of thinking, to wind my thoughts around all that takes me toward the light. All that heals. Replenishes. And stretches me toward the hopeful.

Because moment by moment, I brush up against the broken and the brittle. We’re all so frayed and broken. Wilted. Withered. More than ever it seems the perverse is omnipresent. In my face. In your face. Glaring.

I take a deep breath, then another, and climb for the nourishing truth, sturdy-petals of promise, rising higher.

Like the bougainvillea, I need to train my focus and my thoughts, or else they’ll end up a drooping blob dusting the dirt. Second by second, I remind myself to attach to things worthy of my time.

Most days I want to hide my petals. I want to collapse to the ground in exhaustion, or raging protest, disenchanted and discouraged. I’d be lying if I said the way up were the easy path. But light is light. The sun draws me heavenward with its invisible strands of goodness. I go because there is no better alternative. On my way up I entwine with other flowers on the vine. Comforted in these times of chaos that we are—all of us—more alike than we are different.

I refuse to relinquish hope. I grow and push toward the light for this very reason. Because even in my brokenness and during my most inadequate seasons, I am not alone in this. The hard ascension. The light can be trusted above all else.

*Happy Birthday to my sister, Holly!