Approximately 60 years ago, my Bohemian neighbors planted the Lily of the Valley that still visit me in the Spring. I’ve come to expect those fragrant tiny bells to grace me with their presence annually. They are only there for a moment, so I need to enjoy them while I can. However, I expect them to return, blooming along the fenced property line, just like they always have.
The Nedveds were avid gardeners. Their small property utilized every opportunity to procure vibrant, fragrant life. I used to sit in the front yard and take in the glorious smells of crabapple blossoms and roses. Mr. Nedved tended to the roses that lined their front walkway while listening to classical music and smoking his cigarettes, since he wasn’t allowed to do so in the house. Mrs. Nedved tended to the gardens in the front and back yards, the succulents planted in her old shoes that donned the front step and even a vegetable garden that flanked their garage. There was always a bountiful garden, until they both passed away.
Over the years, there have been 3 other neighbors and with each one, more and more of the gardens have disappeared and have become lawn. However, even though they have been hacked at and a new privacy fence installed, the Lily of the Valley have survived, at least on my side of the fence. It’s like we have an agreement, an expectation that I will never cause them harm and they will always delight me, even if it’s only for a moment. It’s good to have expectations, or so my therapist tells me.
A friend of mine recently shared with me that her roommate had passed. He wasn’t a lover, expectations kept him at arm’s length, but he was much more than a friend. He was much more, even if she denied it, he was always much more. However, for as long as I have known her, he was a part of her life. No matter whom she dated, where her life took her, he was there. He eventually moved into her home. He took care of the home, the animals they lived with, her family and most importantly, her.
It took her months to finally share the information of his passing with me. We talked for hours and she told me how she still expected him to be there. She is lost and rightfully so, because in more ways than one, even though there were no legal documents to prove it, he was her husband. I could say to her that a man doesn’t stay around like that without there being love, but it would fall upon deaf ears.
The other day, I made a note to myself, “Loss, Faith, Commitment”. The inability to Commit due to fear of Loss, because of a lack of Faith. This man in my friend’s life, the man who stayed with her till death did they part, had few expectations, but it seems to me that he had a lot of faith and commitment to their undefined relationship. I used to be sad for him, for staying in her life while she had relationships with others, others who could not commit to her for one reason or another. Now, I am sad for her, because she will never know what could have been if she had different expectations for him, and for herself.
It’s good to have expectations, but not ones that are so high that disappointment is inevitable. It’s also a poor decision to base those expectations on illusions of others. Memories fade and lies take their place and to set expectations based on those lies, it makes me weep.
I have been guilty of these sins myself. I suffer from a strong lack of commitment in many areas of my life due to repeated loss, loss that has broken down my faith. Like my neighbors, so many people have passed from my life. Others come along, but they do not tend to my desires, they do not meet my expectations. However, I will not allow them to hack away at my blossoming self-esteem and smother it with lawn. Fences may go up, but there will always remain, that one strip of fertile soil where the Lily of the Valley will flourish. My faith is still there. Loss is inevitable, but it’s not a reason to avoid commitment. Maybe someday I will meet a gardener that meets my expectations. Until then, I have pruning shears and I’m not afraid to use them.
#thelieswechoosetolivewith
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