Over and over, I have heard the phrase “bloom where you are planted”.

It sounds nice. A positive saying, and it makes a good pass along meme.

It’s easier said than done.

Ten years ago, I planted some narcissus bulbs under the live oak tree in the front yard. I followed instructions as to depth and temperature requirements.

A year later, a beautiful flowering plant rewarded me for those moments digging in the dirt.

That’s the only year it bloomed.

Oh, it comes back up every year. And every year, there is another slender green shoot that follows somewhere around it. It has managed to reproduce, but it has not bloomed.

I like the flowers – especially the pretty part. The delicate fragrance that rewards you for bending down to admire them.

For whatever reason, the narcissus doesn’t have all it needs to bloom here. It may not get cold enough in the dormant season. It may get too much rain, or not enough sun.

Who knows.

All I know is, it’s doing the best it can. It’s taking what it can from the environment it’s been given. It’s coming back every year, and it’s reproducing.

The other little plants don’t even know they are supposed to bloom. Maybe the original one has forgotten how to.

Ten years ago I moved into this house, in a state that I have never been fond of. I came here solely because my family was here. I stay here because my husband and most of my children are also here, too.

I come from northern and western climes. I enjoy all the seasons – fall, winter, spring, and lastly summer. I love the Gulf of Mexico…to visit. My heart is in the Mountain West.

I am trying to bloom. After almost two decades, though, I have a feeling it just won’t happen here.

Oh, I’ve tried. I’ve looked at the sunny side. I’ve exercised in the the gnat filled humidity. I live with huge roaches that fly, for goodness sake. I’ve seen snakes and spiders and devils horsemen grasshoppers. Possums, armadillo, and bear frequent the neighborhood.

I’m still here.

I’m planted.

I don’t know if I’m replicating, but I’m growing.

Through storm and heat and floods and bugs. Through rejection and celebration and loneliness and change.

That’s me you see standing.

I may not be blooming, but I’m growing.

Do I get credit for that?