Waiting to Bloom

I’ll always remember the day that Tommy left. Not even so much for the breakup itself; in fact, that memory has largely been muddled by time. No, I’ll always remember the day because it was such a You-Just-Got-Dumped kind of day. It was the beginning of March, and the weather was certainly coming in like a lion. Blustery and gray, it was the kind of day that would be enjoyed much better at home. And yet I couldn’t stand being inside. I didn’t want to be alone with myself, in the tiny apartment that I was struggling to pay for. So I bundled up and took a walk, unable to tell if the sharp stinging on my face was caused by the wind or my tears. Probably both. Tommy had asked me to come over to his place earlier that morning, where he wasted no time in telling me that he thought it would be best if we spent some time apart. “Lindsay”, he started. “We’ve been together for almost 7 years now and I haven’t seen you ever do something just for yourself. You don’t take risks. You don’t take the time to enjoy yourself. And I just don’t feel like it’s right for you to be in a relationship right now.” While I thought it was kind of a lame excuse for a breakup, what annoyed me the most was that he wasn’t wrong. I’d always struggled with spending time with myself. Being alone with my thoughts honestly felt overwhelming most of the time. So I instead threw myself into jobs that I wasn’t necessarily passionate about, but that kept me busy. I made sure that I was always occupied with some sort of task, regardless of if it was beneficial to myself and my goals. In fact, I had started to lose sight of what my goals actually were.

I don’t remember much else of our conversation that day. I remember that, as much as I wanted to act surprised by Tommy’s breakup, I had seen it coming for a while. And I couldn’t really argue with him. I had put aside career plans of my own to make sure that he achieved everything that he wanted. A month before our relationship ended, I had lost my job in a clothing store. They had gone through some recent financial troubles and decided to downsize. And now, here I was. Almost 28 years old, single and unemployed. The tears that I cried on that cold March afternoon were tears of frustration. I used to have big dreams. I had wanted to be a writer. I would lock myself in my room for hours at a time, reading whatever books I could get my hands on. I was inspired by the ability of writers and creators who could take an idea and turn it into a fantastical tale that allowed its readers to escape from their own blustery and cloudy world and into one with sunny skies full of possibility. I had majored in English Literature in college, but upon graduating I found myself burdened by student debt and not having many well-paying job offers as a fiction writer. So I worked odd jobs to make ends meet, and I stopped having the time to read or write. Soon self-doubt crept in and made itself comfortable in my head, and the mind that had once created elaborate and whimsical stories that I used to escape the world became something that I wanted to escape instead. And now, after spending most of my twenties running from myself, I was left alone with my mind, forced to reconcile with where I was and how I had ended up here. I was broke, living off of a constantly dwindling savings account, and, aside from a few friends, I was alone.

I walked to a park that was near my apartment. It was predictably empty on this particular day. The trees were still barren from winter, yet to feature any hopeful green buds. The wind tore through their bare branches, whistling as it brashly greeted them and then hastily set off again to find itself playing in my long hair and whipping it around my face. As I pulled my hair away from where it had stuck to my damp cheeks, I looked up at a nearby tree and noticed a small black notebook tucked into a crook in its branches. It wasn’t too high up, but I would definitely need to climb a bit to reach it. I hadn’t climbed a tree since I was a child, and, truthfully, the thought of leaving the ground was one that now kind of scared me. But something about that notebook kept beckoning me. Looking around to make sure nobody was watching, I reached my hands towards the closest branch and awkwardly swung my body around it, resembling an uncoordinated sloth in a down jacket. Soon, and not without a few scrapes and swear words, I had reached the branch that held the notebook. I sat in the tree and let my feet dangle freely. The wind rustled through the pages of the notebook as I opened it, but I was finally able to flip to the first page. “Warning!” It’s handwritten words said. “The following challenges must be completed alone. Only go to a new task once you have completed the one before it”. Okay, well, I was alone so I could already check that off. I flipped to the next page, which simply said, “Take a walk in the botanical garden”. That’s it? I considered it for a second and then decided, “Well, why not?” As I closed the notebook and put it into my bag, the wind almost knocked me off of the branch. The botanical garden would have to wait until tomorrow.

The next day, I found myself at the gardens. I bought a ticket and headed down the path. I hadn’t been here since I was a kid, when I had come for a summer camp. It looked a lot different in early March than it did in mid-June. The plants hadn’t quite woken up yet, and many of them were still brown from the winter. Just as I was starting to think that maybe this had been a mistake, I noticed a little flowerbud nestled in a bush in the corner of the garden. It was still dormant, waiting to bloom. But it was doing everything in its power to make sure that it would bloom and that it would be glorious. I stared at the little green bud and, for the first time in a long time, stories of fairies and fantasies danced into my mind. I saw myself as a little fairy sitting on that bud, rubbing my still-sleepy eyes in the sun and waiting for my turn to bloom, too. I thought of the flowers waking up, shaking dew from their petaled lips as their song greeted the day. “Okay, brain, calm down,” I thought. “I’m not Lewis Carroll.” Still, it was nice to feel a story starting to form in my mind. For so long, I had pushed it away. I stood up from where I had been examining the little flowerbud, and gazed toward the entrance of the botanical gardens. A sign that was hanging from the gate read, “Write a story based on our gardens for a chance to win a big cash prize! Accepting submissions through April 2nd”. Interesting. I didn’t know if that was something I was quite ready for. I had put off writing for so long, and I wasn’t sure if writing with the goal of winning money was how I wanted to jump back in. Still, though, it was something to keep in mind.

Later that night I sat on my bed and flipped open the black notebook. The next page said, “Go to Jack’s Bar at 9pm on Thursday. Enter the competition.” Jack’s? Seriously? It was the diviest dive bar that you could think of. I double-checked the date on my phone. “Crap,” I mumbled to myself. “Tomorrow is Thursday” I closed the notebook with a sigh and settled in for the night, with memories of stale beer dancing on my tongue.

I spent the following day browsing for jobs on the internet. There were plenty that, even a few days ago, I would have considered taking. But I had been reminded of how good it felt to create stories and I was determined to find a job that I wanted. However, the rent wasn’t going to pay itself and not many people were looking for a fiction writer. By the evening I was feeling thoroughly dejected, and the thought of a drink at Jack’s was becoming more enticing. I put on a nice dress and did my hair, something I hadn’t done in who-knows-how-long, and at 9pm I found myself taking a seat on an old, torn barstool. I wasn’t sure what ‘competition’ the notebook was talking about, but about 5 minutes after I sat down, a man walked onto a tiny stage in the corner of the bar and announced into the microphone, “Alright, everybody! Our Jerry Springer look-alike contest, sponsored by MountainPass Brewery, will begin in 10 minutes! We have some costumes and wigs backstage. And remember, the prize is $20,000!” I almost choked on my beer, and not just because it was slightly warm. A Jerry Springer look-alike contest? This is what the notebook wanted me to enter? I watched as a few men walked backstage. Feeling ridiculous in my red dress and strappy heels, I downed as much of the beer as I could manage and said aloud, “Screw it.” I had committed to the challenges in the notebook, and the thought of $20,000 wasn’t too bad, either. Backstage, men chuckled as I put on a much-too-large suit and placed the least smelly wig I could find on my head, tucking my long hair in. After a few minutes, it was time to go onstage. The judges had us do our best shocked-by-a-fight-while-simultaneously-backing-up-against-a-wall face and then took a while to deliberate. I couldn’t stop smiling to myself. I had never done anything like this before, obviously. But I also didn’t think I’d done half bad. The audience cheered a lot for me. Finally a judge walked onstage to announce the winners. “In third place, Derek!” Derek bowed. “And in second place, winning a week-long getaway and free date night to MountainPass Brewery, Lindsay!” I didn’t know what hit harder, the fact that I was recently single and won a date night, or that I lost the $20,000. Or maybe it was that I found out I almost look like Jerry Springer, which is somehow worse. Still, the feeling of sadness didn’t last long. When I got home that night I looked at the notebook and considered opening it to learn my next challenge, but instead I sat down at my computer and, for the first time in years, started writing. I opened my story on a blustery day in March.

About a week later I took a walk by myself to the park. It was a sunny day, and I could see the faintest hint of green buds emerging on the trees. As I walked past the tree where I had discovered the notebook, something caught my eye. Up on the branch was a small piece of white paper. I clambered up, unfortunately with no more grace than I had before, and took the paper. It was a check for $20,000. With my name on it. As I stared at it, mouth agape, I looked at the memo line: “Keep Writing.” With the spring sun shining on my face, and the small buds of hope beginning to show their faces on the tree’s branches, I realized something that I never had before: Reality can be just as amazing as fiction, if you let it be so.