I Can Buy Myself Flowers
I’m musing on things today—writing, me, art, validation.
I’m reminiscing on a period a few years ago when I made flowers my entire life. It was very special interest driven, much like writing, but I looked at my future and only saw flowers. I made an LLC, advertised, tried my damndest. I lived for peony season, finding perfect anemones, getting a floppy dusty miller to drape perfectly. I did two full weddings (okay, mine and my sister’s, but it was a lot of work) and felt just perfectly at peace when I tied a bouquet tight, wrapped a silk ribbon, and held it in place with pearl pins.
It was art, *my* art, it was so raw and real, and I felt it in every inch of my body. The pine scent of wax flower was like a drug, the sting of eucalyptus was like a brand on my hands.
But it didn’t work out, you know, in the traditionally measured was of success. I couldn’t break in, I was spending a lot, and the market was saturated. The years I spent with my mind always on garden rose pricing theory or plugging in euphorbia perfectly is something I’ll always cherish.
And in a pinch, I’ll always be able to make a little magic with grocery store flowers.
And, it’s becoming clear that my writing is like that. And art that has meant so much to me—something so purely me—that will probably be something I remember fondly.
I’ve been lost in it for about two years, which for some is no time and maybe to some it’s a long time. The emotions are too much for me, and so it feels like a long time. Too long. It kind of hurts.
I’m at this precipice that I’ve felt before with other things. I feel it under me and in front of me. I’m digging my heels in the ground, but its slowly dawning on me that *oh, this is over.*
It’ll never be over, just like my flowers will never be over.
But I feel as if in trying so hard for publishing, maybe before I was ready, I made my writing into a little flower stand that’ll always be in my heart but needs to close up.
Little flower stand in front of a wine shop.
I smile now, remembering these stands, but I cried that day, because I went home with all the flowers.
And that’s maybe how I feel about writing—I’m coming home with all the flowers. But, maybe they were only supposed to ever be for me?