African Violet

Over the years I have tried to coax blossoms out of African Violets in every place I lived, which includes a lot of states, cities and houses. Since officially moving to Georgia this past September (and even earlier to buy the house,  get things started), I once again picked up an African Violet for $3.49 at my favorite grocery store. It had three blooms on it.

Today it is bursting full of 17 flowers, with more peeking out from underneath the leaves. It reminds me of the Old Woman in the Shoe who had so many children she didn’t know what to do. Personally, I am glad this is an abundance of flowers and not children. My two children are plenty, thank you.

Yet each morning I add ¼ cup of water directly to the top of the plant, or sometimes just beneath the leaves, touching them all as I have been cautioned over and over again to never do ~ yet I do for some instinctive reason. I almost talk to the plant, but am not quite at that point yet, although I do say, “Good morning, Violet.” I planted it into a pot my granddaughter, Tate, decorated for my mother. It sits on our kitchen window sill in a small dish of my mother’s china. I think this plant knows it has a big job to do in helping us all remember Mama Parks, herself born in Georgia 100 years ago this August, but she didn’t live quite that long.

This period in our new home has been a time of waiting, and for what I am not sure. To belong? To feel needed? What about having a purpose? Or returning to my roots? I already feel all of these things. My husband and I are welcomed each morning with so many birds chirping I’m sure it must sound like Africa ~ some place away from noise and a lot of people. Except for the birds and the neighbor’s rooster early mornings, it’s quiet here, and these are noises we like. Doors and windows are open for cool air until the days get hot. It’s different from other places we’ve lived. Yet my African Violet is happy here and so is my heart.

When we left the Pacific Northwest after being there more than 30 years, I felt as if I were leaving the nest, yet suddenly here I am in Georgia, feeling I have finally come home. My husband joked recently that he was adjusting to Georgia better than me. I laughed. It’s just that he has a large yard to play in with a riding lawn mower, a garden already filled with budding fruits and vegetables, thanks to a long growing season, and the natural preserve he’s creating in the back. He’s also learning to kayak Georgia rivers, and working at a new P/T time he enjoys, driving a semi for an Athens, GA events management crew that sets up everything needed for major bicycle races around the country. (Google that at USA Crits). He’s one happy & busy guy.

Sometimes we have a green light in our lives before we realize it. A bell rings suddenly in our hearts and tells us it’s time to go, leave, move on, get packing, start the process and don’t stop until you get where you are supposed to be. That bell rang for both of us at the same time and we have finally come to the place where we know we were meant to be. It’s an awfully good feeling ~ that of coming home!

About beeconcise

A Southern writer now living in Georgia after many years in the Pacific Northwest.
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