Gardening and plants have been a part of my life since the beginning.
It started with my mom who had a huge love for house plants. Pretty sure her cover business for selling drugs was the cash sales of her plants that she reproduced and sold at flea markets.
When I became an adult I started growing plants myself, but only stuck to useful plants often criticizing my taste in my Mom's plants because she put more effort into feeding those houseplants than she did her children. At the end of the day, it was her fault not the plants.
When John and I moved to Acapulco, the first thing we did was start a garden in the window sill of our apartment which we later transplanted up on the mountain where we lived until he died.
After the murder I wanted to have a garden again but didn't because realistically, I didn't have a home anymore.
Now that I'm settled for now at least in a new place, I've set down some roots (even if they are in pots, in the event that I move again) and gotten started gardening with the things that make me happiest, smelly flowers and cacti.
I'm still going through a lot. Every time I think I'm getting through it, something reminds me I'm not where I want to be. Caught with a restlessness of wanting to be happy again while understanding I'm just not there yet.
For now I'll take a lesson from my garden, just keep growing.