My husband, daughter and I lived in Santa Fe, New Mexico for several years. For the last 2 years we rented a great house with a HUGE yard that was completely walled in and very private. We loved it. We did so much work on that place – when we moved in the yard was covered with waist-high dried sticks of weeds and a number of resident black widows. It was horrible, but we could see it had great potential. My husband dug endlessly, we planted, watered everything by hand with rainwater because there were drought restrictions, and before long we had beautiful gardens and chickens, and we spent a lot of happy time out there eating, gardening and playing.
Then 4 years ago I decided we needed to move back to Boston for work. We found an apartment in a 2-family house with a small shared yard. My husband built a garden box to grow vegetables in and I enjoyed the outcome but was never truly invested in it. It just wasn’t the same. I wallowed.
My daughter wanted to plant flowers all over the yard, just like we had in Santa Fe, but I couldn’t see the point. I kept hoping we wouldn’t be there too long, and that we’d have a better place to plant in soon – somewhere we might stay a while. You see a moral coming, don’t you? You’re more alert than I was.
Thankfully, my daughter didn’t give up and we planted a bunch of bulbs, which I looked forward to as eagerly as she did. But the real holdout was a rose bush. We’d left two beautiful rose bushes 2,000 miles away and she wanted another one more than anything. But again, I kept saying let’s wait. For what exactly I can’t tell you – just a vague someplace better.
You’ll be glad to know that this past summer I finally came to my senses and said of course we can plant a rose bush. And she was so happy, and we all love it.
This is the place I’ve least wanted to stay out of all the places we’ve lived, so naturally it’s the place we’ve been the longest. I’ve been so resistant to putting down roots of all kinds, but I’ve come to believe that’s precisely what holds me back.