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A Fear of Plants By Mary Roberts Henderson
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Funny what scares us. My daughter Lauren has developed a fear of plants. She's not old enough to have seen Lost in Space episodes, where extraterrestrial plants swallowed space invaders whole. But something has triggered a fear in her of ferns and ivy and all things green. So we've removed all plant life from her room, while trying to convince her that leafy creatures are capable of nothing more than drinking in sun and water.
Me, I'm afraid of not being successful at establishing myself as a consultant in a new town. Of dipping into savings to support us while my husband finishes law school Arriving at midlife with a debt the size of a small house. And most of all, of inflicting irreparable psychological harm on my daughter without knowing it.
So when Lauren cries from time to time about missing our old house, the only one she's ever known, it tugs at my heart. She never wanted to move, she says. She loved our old house, and that's where she wants to live forever. The truth is, I know exactly how she feels.
When my husband decided, with my blessing, to quit his firefighter job--a public servant position that promised a nice pension in just 15 years--to enroll in an out-of-state law school, there was little to be enthused about in the short run. But over time I realized that the cost of his living a life of regret was far greater than any amount of money in the bank. I came to believe that he would slowly die if he didn't move forward, not because he hated his job, but because it was time to move on and test out some untapped talents and skills. He wanted to be involved in the pressing issues of the day, or at least to be invited to the table. I knew that he not only possessed the brain power, but that the opportunity before him would give him the qualifications to join the fray. Financing his legal education was the right thing to do.
For his first two years, he flew back and forth between Chicago and Cleveland, while Lauren and I stayed in Cleveland and I worked. But for this third year, we planned for us to move and all live together under one roof. Even though it meant the end of our commuter marriage, I had known along that moving from Cleveland would be a huge a challenge: it meant selling my beloved home, much of what I owned, and downscaling to a small apartment. At 37, most of our friends were buying up, not down. I was loath to lose our yard, deck (that took an entire summer to build), even my washer and dryer in the basement. The idea of giving up my cozy home, familiar surroundings, and life as I knew it—including girlfriends I considered soul sisters—gnawed at my sense of well being.
When she complains, I share with my daughter that I, too, hated to leave our house and friends. But I continue to emphasize the reason we did it: because it was important for us to all be together in one place. At the times I feel the loss most keenly, I repeat to myself what has now become a mantra: people, experience, and adventure are more important than things.
Living in Chicago has indeed been a great adventure, not only in exploring all that makes this a great city, but also for each of us personally. Making our way in a new town has made us more self-reliant and at the same time, more cohesive as a family. It has stretched us to leave the friends and family with whom we shared our daily lives—our very history as people. I hope that in exchange for the pain, we all gain the virtue of adaptability, and that Lauren learns at four what I am only now learning after nearly four decades of practicing life: change can be a transforming experience. As we adjust, make new connections, and find joy in our daily lives, I know we are each building a personal confidence that would be hard to achieve staying in one place.
In retrospect, I am grateful for the move because has provided me with so many defining moments, and a chance to rediscover myself. Do we live in the city or suburbs? Is condo living for me? How do I psych myself up to make cold calls? When I talk with the other pre-school moms, am I careful and reserved, or the "real" me from the get-go? By focusing on the possibilities instead of dwelling on what I was sacrificing, I was able to overcome my fears—and the reservations voiced by so many around us. When I think about what I've accomplished, I am enormously proud—I'm one tough chick.
Despite pressure to maintain the status quo, we have gone out on a limb—and as the saying goes, I'm hoping that's where the fruit is. Whether or not there are real treasures awaiting my husband in his new career, for me in mine, or for all of us in our new home, I know the reward is in having ventured out and taken the risk. In abandoning complacency and daring to become the true architects of our lives.
God willing, there will be another house in our future. When Lauren says she wants it to look exactly like our old one, I am reminded to be gentle with myself when I reluctantly submit to the process of life. It's just plain natural to be averse to change. I tell her our next home will be as good as or better than our last house. That we'll always love the old one, but there will be another. For now, we can dream about how we'll decorate our next home and a very special little girl's room, with a window seat and bookshelves just like the ones she had before. But without the plants.
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