Signs

If you like, you may choose to accept some events in your life as a sort of foreshadow – a real-world prediction of things to come. I think most of us probably do at some level once in a while. I know I do, although sometimes I’m not sure that I believe in omens as much as I entertain the idea as a form of amusement.

Sometimes, a phone call might come just at the moment I needed it most, or an unseasonably warm day appears and I think to myself, “wow, now that’s a good sign.” And maybe it is, I don’t know. But I think that a life can be full of these signs if we like, or virtually devoid of them. And I don’t know which is better, or if there is such a thing as better, really. In the big picture, I’m not sure better exists or if it is even relevant.

I should tell you that I am the protector of some things. Some things such as my home, my career, my reputation. I protect my wonderful little bear in the ways I can. My sister. And other things, like my childhood memory of lying on the floor in my parent’s home, watching particles of dust stand almost-still in a brilliant beam of sunlight.

I have accepted the responsibility for protecting these things from this dirty and dangerous world, and sometimes I have an opportunity to enhance them – to relive that instant of tranquility I captured so vividly that afternoon when I was eight. To promote my loved ones, to advance my career.

And once in a while, I fail. My sister once entrusted me with a handful of precious items, and I let her down. An orchid died. A box full of her lost son’s belongings became mildewed in my basement.

I have, however, managed to keep that promise to her in one respect. Quinn’s orchid – the other plant she left with me, the one with the dancing yellow butterfly blossoms – lives on. Like Quinn did, it has suffered terribly, and recovered, and suffered again. The move to Hawai`i was hard on all of us, including the plants. Many died outright. But Quinn’s orchid survived, and even bloomed. It’s now come with us to the funky new house in green little Pauoa valley.

But only recently have I actually taken conscious note of an important thing at the new house. Sitting to one side of the rock and concrete retaining walls in my back yard is a patch of Quinn’s orchid growing wild in a rocky crevice. Growing there, three feet long and a foot wide, wild and free for years now, going through its seasonal cycles without regard of people in the house below.

The wild patch of Quinn’s orchid is getting ready to flower. Just now, as we’re settling in, long, still-unbranched spikes two and three feet long arc out of the bush. In a few weeks, we’ll have dancing yellow butterflies. It’s been a wet year, and I expect a good show.

Many things about this house tell me that it will be a home to me, and that I will love it. Its funky “fix me” look, the quiet and friendly neighborhood, the sizeable yard. But I haven’t taken any of that as a sign.

I have chosen, however, to be honored by the welcome of Quinn’s orchid growing wild on an inhospitable rock. And I can't help but think there's an omen in there, that the metaphor for the delicate yet persistant orchid growing on a rock portends of good, good things.

After all, what could be a better sign than dancing yellow butterflies.