Packing. What a new range of meaning, a new level of respect, I forcefully gained for this word these last few days. I never knew I had so many clothes! Late into the night, I stood in front of my full length mirror and sorted the good from the bad, (and the bad from the ugly) and those I would take from those that were not lucky enough to make the prestigious cut. I planted my tanned feet in front of my honest mirror and slipped into a thousand shirts, wiggled into jeans not worn all summer… Besides clothes, small and lightweight mementos, and official documents, what do I need?! What are things you couldn’t live without that I’m probably forgetting? Help!
My feet are planted. Why am I secretly so stubborn to “get a move on”, to finish the torturous cleaning and packing process, to say my goodbyes, to start planning this new chapter? There’s something about the word “plant” that sticks with me. Of course, the most fetching part of a flower is the part you can see: the brilliantly vibrant, colorful petals: the attractive piece that makes romantics adore them. Appearance, friends, accomplishments, actions: things all prominently displayed like the delicately beautiful parts of a bouquet. But, underneath the petals, the stem, and a mound of earth, lie the dirty white, tangled roots. Though their appearance doesn’t do their important role justice, the roots have been there for the flower from the very beginning. They lay the foundation for who one will become, tasks to tackle, choices to be made. They embed my trust and well-being to a circle of family, friends, and mentors. Long ago, I carefully planted those tangles in soft, fertile soil away from trampling feet, with plenty of sunlight but not too much shade. Those preparations worked fantastically. The roots gave way to an inquisitive stem, pushing curiously through the earth. Dedication and time grew a flower eager to learn and love. Now, although the flower is happy and healthy, she has chosen to be transplanted in a new garden far away in Ireland… ;)