When An Ailing Thing Can’t Be Saved
Wild wanderer that I am, I have learned to keep it light enough to travel.
In a single decade, I have had nearly a dozen different mailing addresses, but only two suitcases — one for long trips, one for short trips. It is only now as I enter my late 20s that I am beginning to see the hints of wear and tear on my luggage.
Perhaps, even in my minimalism, I tried to fit too much.
A beat-up 1997 Honda Civic. A feisty young emu named Nova. A well-traveled guitar. All things I loved; all things I left behind.
It seems I had no true loyalty to anything but the call of my own whim. And that call, whether rooted in wisdom or idiocy, always came through stronger than the sound of any engine, animal, or instrument.
By the time I was ready to move my life from North Carolina to California to be with my boyfriend, Jesse, I considered myself fairly practiced at the art of letting go.
Besides, I actually enjoyed saying goodbye to most of my possessions, because it freed me, at least in a physical sense, to move forward.
The day Jesse and I packed the bed of our Toyota pickup truck with only the bare essentials, he insisted that our favorite houseplant come along for the ride. Over the previous weeks, I had carefully selected fitting parents for all of our other beloved plants. A spider plant for Allison. A succulent for Mckenzie. A hibiscus for Hannah.
The thought of toting this living thing on a three-week road trip out west didn’t make much sense to me. Plus, it went against my minimalist sensibilities. I had had the plant for two years and was proud of its luscious looks and obvious health.
I expressed my concern for the plant’s well-being, but my boyfriend was adamant about it accompanying us on our journey. There was a long ride ahead of us, and so I decided it was best to choose my battles.
We named our traveling companion Sly in honor of the great Sylvester Stallone. Sly was, after all, a philodendron, which is known for being extremely hearty and adaptable. If there were any houseplant that could survive the long ride out west, it was him.
So Sly, Jesse, and I embarked on what we believed would most certainly be the adventure of a lifetime. We had Sly’s resilience, Jesse’s determination, my whimsical charm, a sexy truck, Lou Reed music, and the open road.
What more did we need?
In the beginning, we did our best to remember to check on Sly. In Nashville, we brought him into our friend’s tiny farm cottage where we played music and cuddled in a loft bed. In Texas, he chilled with us in a cheap motel where we made love the morning of my birthday.
At first, Sly appeared strong and resilient, with only mild symptoms of distress, and I began to think that I had nothing to worry about after all. As for Jesse and me, the threads of integrity that had long held our passionate relationship together were beginning to gradually unravel.
Fights about everything from money to lodging kept erupting between us, causing our libidos and our patience to dwindle.
Sure, we had surges of pleasure and moments of intimacy, but the closer we got to our destination, the more stressed we became. To this day, I don’t know if we were distracted by the Arches in Utah or the adobes in New Mexico, but something made us turn a blind eye.
By the time we woke up from our second night in Colorado, we remembered that we had left Sly in the truck.
Here we were, on the top of a snow-capped mountain, surrounded by endless grandeur, filled with guilt from neglecting the one thing that depended on us to keep it alive.
I wish I could say that Sly lived up to his name, that there wasn’t a scratch on him, that he was immune to extreme temperatures, and negligence. By the time we removed him from the truck, he was unrecognizable — nearly all his perky green leaves had turned a wilted brown. Jesse took it upon himself to perform the task of deadheading.
Sadly, all that could be preserved of Sly were two measly-looking leaves. And I could not help but blame myself for putting a once-thriving creature in a situation where it was doomed to wither away. Still, I told myself that once we got to California and found an apartment, I would nurture Sly back to health.
We were together in Northern California for two weeks before I fled to Los Angeles to regain a sense of self. It took another two weeks for me to miss two non-refundable flights and for us to break up, get back together, and break up again.
Lastly, it took two puny leaves to remind us that we were witnessing our once-great love withering away.
Behold the power of two. And what of our one plant, Sly? A casualty of our romance, he lost more leaves than he ever should have, and I lost him in the separation. My last request to Jesse was that if Sly didn’t have a fighting chance, then he should be respectfully returned to the earth.
I don’t know why romance seems to have such a short lifespan or why an ailing thing cannot always be saved. About three weeks after our breakup, Jesse and I stopped speaking completely. His assurance that he would continue to love me forever seemed reason enough for me to cut off all lines of communication between us.
I wasn’t even sure if he knew what the word love meant, or if he would ever come to know. After scrambling to get back on my feet, I forced myself to dig through my personal belongings. It was all there: the comforter that warmed us, the tent that sheltered us, the dreamcatcher that had idly hung in our rearview mirror.
Each item appeared before me like haunting vestiges from another life. So I did the thing I had always been good at and began to give away most of my belongings once more. I realized that what gave so many of these items value was their ability to support my former lover and I as we journeyed together.
Now that I was going in a new direction, I no longer needed to carry them with me. Still, the memory of Sly slipped back into the forefront of my mind. It pained me to think of him with Jesse in the end, but I suppose it was a fitting union for they were both beings I loved, but could not ultimately take with me.
I no longer love Jesse. Although when I did, I believe I did so with all of my might. Maybe it was the stress of being in a car so long together. Or the fact that we were flat broke. Or that we just ran out of steam and no longer had the energy to keep it going. I only know that love seems to have its own will, its own rhythm, its own reason.
And sometimes that realization is so crushing it leaves you feeling completely immobile. But if you can manage to find the strength to get up again, to sort through all the excess baggage, and lighten your load then you will have mastered what so many struggle with.
Simply by virtue of your remarkable resilience, you will have miraculously made room for the new.
And if you are brave, you will venture into the abyss once more, with a brand new durable backpack, knowing that your own self-possession will be enough, that it has always been enough.
*****
Michelle Price is a swimmer, siren, and sea serpent who calls upon her favorite elemental muse (the water) for inspiration. She presses her pen to the paper and waits for the ink to flow; she will not rest until she sees waves. When a hurricane of emotions hits, she stands on the shoreline, taking inventory of all the things that were suddenly swept away. She records what is wrecked, what is gone, and what remains. She is the barefooted explorer who dances between pieces of broken glass, trying to retrieve any traces of treasure. She believes in the power of art to bring to the surface that which has been buried deep below. When we gain the courage to free ourselves from forces that hinder our true creative expression, we begin the healing process. Be it pen or paintbrush, she honors all the many different tools of healing humans chose to be reminded of our true divine nature. Michelle also writes bios for holistic health professionals. You can learn more about her services at her website.
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