Close readers of this blog (hugs to all three of you) may have noticed that posts have begun to tend toward the nostalgic, evoking the past, as I forewarned as we started the year. As this year will mark my 50th here on earth, I’ve allowed the indulgences for the next twelve months, as I navigate the midsection of my life, God-willing, and the start of my final act (assuming we’re each allotted two).
Coincidentally, the long-overdue clean-up of our guest room (which at this point is more of a storage room) revealed a stack of old photographs, including this Christmas shot of me excitedly holding a bag of… wait for it… potting soil. Happily, I never considered my passion for gardening an odd thing, even as a young child. Back then, my intuition understood somehow that ‘Comparison is the thief of joy’, and so I simply minded my own business, gleefully asking Santa for houseplant paraphernalia the way other boys wished for plastic toys of war and fighting.
Looking back at the child I was, it does strike me as strange, or at least slightly off the beaten path. It set me apart from other children, and I was lucky enough to know that feeling early on – to know it, accept it, embrace it, and allow it to empower me. When you have the self-fortitude and security to stand apart from the pack, you’re probably stronger than most of the people who are too afraid to leave the pack. Remember: life is a mystery. Everyone must stand alone. The earlier you learn how to do that, the better.
