There Goes the Neighborhood

There Goes the Neighborhood

We have a little Christmas cactus sitting on a window sill, above and to the right of our kitchen sink.  We have had it for one year and two weeks.  It has not been especially noteworthy, lounging in its spot, comfortable enough in its setting, to allow the neighborly daddy longlegs to move in and build its home, between the five-inch flower pot, and the window.

I am the official potted-plant, maintenance man in this household.  My Virgoan nature requires that I water all fifteen of the downstairs plants, rhythmically, and uniformly, and the plants have always shown their appreciation by doing whatever it is that potted plants are supposed to do, and doing it with flair.

This little Christmas cactus has perched next to its African Violet pal, and watched as this violet, the last remnant of Annie’s mom’s houseplants, has pushed purple petals out of itself, unceasingly for six months now.  Up until now, the cactus has been content to be an observer of life, and not the source of any attention.

For me this has been the most tumultuous of years, with changes abundant in everything I do.  I think differently, which affects every phase of my life.  People who have known me for any period of time, notice the differences immediately, and sit back to see what’s in store next.

There could not have been two more different entities in this house, than me, and the little Christmas cactus, until just these past few days.  Suddenly, however, without warning, this little model of consistency, has leaped outside of its shell, and produced an exquisite bloom, softly pale in its center, but flamboyantly lined along its edges with a deep, blood-red hue. 

Is nothing sacred?  The little cactus has changed.  I have changed.  My change does not come in the form of an exhilarating bloom, so much as a change from within.  If you evaluated my change, you would find that though the same on the outside, I am profoundly different on the inside.  If you examined the change in the Christmas cactus, you would find profound changes on the outside, but that the cactus is still, well, a cactus.

It just goes to show.  You can’t always judge an entity by its plain exterior; you never know what’s going on in the inside, and you never know when those changes will manifest themselves.  I’m just glad I didn’t have to spend the year on a window sill, talking over the back fence, to a daddy long legs.