I carry my plant. My beloved pathos is the only potted greenery to survive any of my nurturing efforts. I bought her at Brookshire's in 2016.
We gingerly walk the several hundred steps from last season to next.
Five years ago John Harris called from ETBU to say my name had been mentioned, and he wondered if I'd be interested in a secretarial position in the religion department.
He told me about my dad calling him in the 90's from ETBU to say that his name had been mentioned and he wondered if John would be interested in a faculty position in the religion department.
We talked about his cancer in that first call. Somehow I knew I would work for him for the rest of his life.
John had the highest standards: in work ethic, gift-giving, and Turabian formatting.
He had the most answers: always a position, rarely any sway; always a strategy, never a second guess.
He had a tremendous amount of patience with me and reciprocity reigned.
That pathos grew bright and tall as discussions of propriety, ministry, and Seinfeld episodes wafted around the office day in and day out.
Over time, snapped yellow leaves were tossed away while clipped sturdy stems rested and rooted in clean, clear cups of water.
Pruning and productive, five years full.
We slowly walk to the cadence of cart wheels clunking across brickish pavers, and I'm numb. So much change in these last several months. All the grieving and leaving and recalibration. Am I ready for more?
The elevator dings.
Onward and upward. We unload the photos and coffee and books. And we gently set the glazed dish of flourishing vines upon an unfamiliar ledge.
A fresh vista where light will shine through slivers of space, and words will stir purpose and seep satisfaction like water in the soil. The time-consuming, hard and happy work of thriving awaits.
Ready, set, grow.
