Acceptance, Part 1
My husband is outside watering the plants with a tin watering can he found downstairs, a cigarette is hanging out of his mouth. He is wearing sea blue long cut off shorts that are fraying at the ends, a faded NASA t-shirt which pulls a bit under the arms and his Kermit the frog green Crocs. His hair is tied back in a braided ponytail. It is early before work and I am getting ready for group. He likes it out on the deck. It is his favorite place and the one place that is his. The screen door pops open as I am pouring a cup of coffee at the stove. “Liz, come outside.” He is excited so despite my embarrassment of being only in a long WFMU t-shirt from the last pledge drive I come outside. “Stand on the chair and look.” I step onto the chair and peer into the hanging basket. “See those? We have strawberries.” We have been waiting for these fucking strawberries for months. The seeds had been sitting in dirt in a dozen plastic containers since spring on top of the fridge. Every time I stood on my toes to see if anything was growing he would remind me of how sweet they will be.
“Try one.” I pick one from the middle. It is bright and looks like a tiny plastic trinket that would hang from a young girl’s necklace. “What does it taste like? Is it sweet?” “Hold on. I’m trying to figure it out. ” “It’s a strawberry,” he says as if every strawberry tasted the same. “It’s not very juicy. Really sweet…the texture is weird.” He looks disappointed and I feel bad. “It’s an experiment, remember. You’ve done a beautiful job with the deck.” I kiss him on the lips. On the chair we are the same height. He has planted our three flower boxes with seeds he had researched in the winter while sitting on Couch. I’m not sure he remembers where or what was planted but he likes the surprise when they grow and start to flower. I find it unsettling.
Some are too tall for the planters, like the deep yellow marigolds and I tell him I would love those in handfuls of different colors in front of the bed and breakfast. A group of flowers grow in one box on the side of the stairs. They are orange and close together, like a bunch of good friends, and hang over the flower box as if looking for others like them. We have decided to plant them again next year. Another flower box is filled with two tall cone shaped fuzzy fiery red flowers and filled in with mini yellow ones he found at the Trader Joes. Not all the flowers are a surprise and I think maybe that is disappointing.
Our Wandering Jews hang from the rafters. He has two here and another at the bike shop. As soon as the plants go outside they explode in the outdoor freedom. When I bring them back inside for the winter they brown and thin and curl like the bones of a hand. They crumble and live on the edge of death until spring when they can again go outside.
My husband has a green thumb while my thumb is freckled. He planted small sunflowers which are in white pots on the railing that lead up the stairs. Two spider plants are on the table. I had him bring them outside from the bathroom after swatting at tiny black flies while showering.
Various types of tomatoes have been planted and spread from our deck to our neighbors but they don’t seem to mind.
We don’t know what all the plants are called so I take pictures to show my friend at work who will know all their names. There are many vines. The big one in a ceramic pot hangs in a tan colored crocheted holder above the table. One of its vines is long and gets in the way while talking, like the piece of bang that hangs in my niece’s face. I brought the plant home four years ago. Her leaves’ colors are named Emerald, Fern and Moss and when looked at from afar I just call them Green. We bring her and the two others back inside in the winter and they do just fine. One plant is hung in the kitchen and the other in the window of the front room. They are proof of life.
My husband looks around while holding the watering can.“I don’t remember those.” It is beautiful outside and when I show people pictures of our deck everyone ahs and is impressed. Still, it is chaotic for me, like walking down a path where bushes and unruly flowers hit me in the face. I like things neat and orderly while my husband is fine with flowers and plants coming from all directions. I silently repeat the word together and accept.
Place is acceptance. Acceptance is the ability to see that others have a right to be their own unique persons. That means having a right to their own feelings, thoughts and opinions. When you accept people for who they are, you let go of your desire to change them. We have been learning this word for thirteen months and it is not as easy as the definition or as smooth as I write it now.
His eyes are open and I take that as the go light for me to talk. I tell him about the dream I had of L.A. and living there again. “We are not moving to California,” he says. His voice feels like I’m walking barefoot on rocks. “That wasn’t what I was saying I was just-.” “I know what you were saying , Liz. “ This was not how I wanted the morning to go. I push myself off the bed, walk into the bathroom and close the door. I turn on the faucet as if I am washing my face but really I am crying. He knocks. “What are you doing? Are you just sitting?” He knows me well. “You know you can’t talk to me so quick in the morning. I’m sorry , Liz.” “I was just telling you my dream.” I am still sitting on top of the toilet seat when I open the door. I make circles with my bare toes on the floor and then I get up and squeeze myself between him and the door. “I’ll go make the coffee.” “Good idea,” he says. Other thoughts and questions are running, speeding, through my brain and I try really hard not to say them out loud knowing they will overwhelm him. He just needs coffee and time, and easy talk that doesn’t require any comments. Our mornings go much better all these months later, not always, but mostly. If he opens his eyes in bed I kiss him and tell him I am going to make the coffee.
He enters the kitchen stretching his arms above his head, He is in his briefs. I’m already dressed. I have poured him a cup of coffee and it is sitting next to the stove. “Thank you.” He kisses me on the head. Sometimes he says, “tell me,” if he senses I really need to talk and I will but I won’t ask questions that are deep or require too much thought. I will talk slow like I am rubbing his back. I am okay with this, as least I am mindful. I accept this as long as I can talk to him later which I usually can. This is not that kind of day.
When driving alone after a bad morning, after I have cried out loud and not behind a bathroom door, I go back to when we first began dating: I go to the mornings on the boat when I worked at five or the days off we had together and I think of how I woke up then, the emotions I didn’t hold back. I can’t remember. Now, we seem so different. We are told we are very different in our family sessions and we are both learning to accept this. He has a new word for himself, “sensitive”, and we learn this is a descriptive word we have in common. He tells me sometimes how he feels I don’t accept him. This has not always been untrue but as we talk about us and our future I think how interesting we are: he lived on a boat, I am a writer, we want a bed and breakfast; we are working hard on us- not surrendering us together. Usually, I really like us but on those bad mornings, when I have to close the bathroom door, I look up on my phone new meanings of acceptance.
