Window Views: Flower trials

This past winter, I fantasized almost every day about the day my sweetie, Tyler, and I would roll up to the nearest Lowe’s or Walmart and fill our shopping carts full of flowers to pot and plant at the Beach House (if you’re new here, that’s what we call our little home in Ohio).

Well, that blessed day finally arrived a couple of weeks ago — but it was not blessed at all.

As soon as we walked through the automatic doors and into the garden section, a fit of decision paralysis slammed into me like a freight train, and I got so cranky and overwhelmed that I lost interest in the project almost immediately and told Tyler I wanted to leave. It felt like the flowers were taunting me — so many different shapes, petals and colors to choose from. I hadn’t expected so many options and felt unprepared, scolding myself for not creating a plan ahead of time. There were so many combinations of flowers I could create — what if I chose the wrong one?

Well, I didn’t like that thought. So I chose nothing at all.

However —there were some beautiful, bright red tuberous begonias that kept catching my eye. I admired the bountiful petals and vibrant color. I could so clearly imagine these flowers in my white pots on the front porch, keeping watch over the yard like the queen’s regal guards.

Tyler’s voice startled me out of my reverie: “Let’s buy some!”

I frowned at the cheerful lilt in his voice. He’s always like this — relaxed and ready for an adventure; meanwhile I’m spiraling into a cyclone of self-doubt. I feel such pressure in these moments to choose the right thing. But what does that even mean? I don’t know, and that’s why I get paralyzed with indecision.

When I lived at home in Pennsylvania, my mom always bought the flowers for the house and did most of the planting herself. I suddenly wished I had paid more attention to her process. Which flowers looked the best and lasted the longest? How did she coordinate colors and pots? What if I regretted what I chose? I didn’t want to go back to the Beach House and realize I made a mistake.

Because that’s the thing about me: I don’t like making mistakes.

I want to be perfectly happy and satisfied with every single decision I make my whole life. I’m not stupid, I know this isn’t possible, but I do my best to make it so. I don’t want to feel doubt, uncertainty, or worry. In my merciless quest to avoid such uncomfortable feelings, though, I end up creating them anyhow. I ruin adventures for myself before they even begin.

“I’m not getting any,” I said grumpily to Tyler, turning away from the begonias and walking back toward the parking lot and our car. “They’re probably too bright, and I have to color coordinate what other flowers I get, and I’ll end up hating them, and I should have planned this more, and I need more time to think, and —”

And and and.

I’m good at arguing with my mind about what I want, when my heart already knows the answer.

Oh, my poor little heart — always steamrolled into silence while I’m caught up in the courtroom of my mind, putting myself on trial. All at once I am the prosecutor, defense attorney, judge, jury, plaintiff and defendant. It’s exhausting. The moment I draw any sort of conclusion or make a decision, the prosecutor shoots up and demands to cross-examine me.

And as soon as that starts, I take on the role of juror and feel so confused and lost watching the proceedings.

I can’t make sense of anything I think. I can’t decide if I’m guilty or innocent. I can’t just call a verdict and put an end to the madness. So the trial drags on and on and on and on ...

Like I said: My heart knows what to do.

Too bad I ignore it.

We returned to the Beach House without flowers that day. I know I’m a dramatic and anxious person, but seriously — how could I have managed to ruin something as simple and lovely as looking at flowers? Why couldn’t I just be in the moment and enjoy all the sights and smells? The soft, colorful petals and sweet, earthy aroma of dirt. I’m so worried about screwing up that I end up doing nothing at all.

I don’t live.

I had sent my mother a distress signal whilst overwhelmed and paralyzed in the middle of the flower aisles at Lowe’s.

I didn’t read her text response until we got home, and she said something along the lines of: “Don’t stress! You can do something different each year. There’s been many years I liked the flowers I chose and many I haven’t.”

My eye started twitching.

I. Don’t. Like. Making. Mistakes.

The whole point of being alive, though, is that you will screw up. It’s how you know you’re still here and still breathing.

The consequence of never taking risks, or trying new things, or being willing to freefall is that your soul starts to wilt. You don’t even feel human anymore, but like some kind of paralyzed robot, trapped in the fear of failure and imperfection.

Heed my warning: These feelings infest your life slowly, like a weed, until one day you wake up and look around, bewildered by the extremity of the problem. How did I let this happen?

Well, I wallowed in self-pity and worry for a bit, but I did return to the flower aisle a couple of days later and went straight to the begonias. At the mere sight of them, I heard that thrilled little whisper in my heart, barely audible amidst all the hooting and hollering in the trial courtroom, but still there nonetheless. Yes, I hear you, little heart. I’ll get you some begonias.

“Because I can,” I muttered to myself as I put four of the flowers in my cart. That’s what my late Poppy always said: Because I can.

I stared down at the brilliant red petals with a satisfied smile.

Then I buzzed through the store, grabbing all sorts of flowers and pots and soil, just having fun.

And not to toot my own horn, but the Beach House turned out beautiful. The front porch looks splendid. My begonias were the perfect choice ... because my heart wanted them. And that’s good enough logic for me.

If I want to buy freaking begonias, I will. And if they end up looking terrible, or they all die, or bugs eat the petals, well, WHATEVER!!!

I only have one life. I get to be alive one time. I can survive poor judgment in flowers, but I cannot survive not trying.

So, the jury’s out, folks.

I rest my case.

Email comments to kjasper@indianagazette.net.