A Bit of Coconut Cake
It makes me sad that so many of us grow jaded and cynical as we turn into adults.
I was thinking, today, of a pink rosebush that used to grow by Big Granny’s house. It was up on the hillside and sat behind two apple trees. There was a small broken down section of a white picket fence behind it. The fence and trees made it feel as if the bush lived in its own magical world. Its roses were the loveliest shade of subtle pink, the color barely there. The flowers themselves were oh-so-delicate and often fell apart when touched. As if to make up for their fragility, there were tons of them, the very definition of laden. I loved that rose bush.
I spent many an evening sitting by it, sniffing the roses, à la Ferdinand. I dreamed such wonderful dreams in that spot. I would picture myself as a princess in long flowing velvet robes, bending over to sniff the perfect blossoms. Unicorns would come to visit, along with massive friendly dogs. Untold numbers of fairy beings danced under the trees.
Sometimes, at the end of the day, I would manage to carefully pick one of the roses. I would take it home to keep at my bedside. Mom would let me use one of our cups for it. (We never seemed to have proper vases around our house, but that was ok.) Going to bed would be a treat with my beautiful rose by my pillow.
(That’s coming from someone who HATED bedtime! I was always afraid I’d miss something while I was asleep.)
In a similar vein, I liked peonies for the same sort of reasons. They are overblown and showy and dramatic, and their scent is my absolute favorite smell in the entire world. I would bring peonies in by the handfuls to keep by my bed. I’d sniff them deeply as I drifted off.
It was the height of indulgence when I would have peonies, and some sort of fancy drinking glass for my nighttime sips of water. (Not plastic, but real glass, I thought that was the best!) I felt like such a fairy tale queen.
And that little girl version of me thought it must be the best feeling in the world to be an adult and have flowers by your bed and fancy drinking glasses whenever you wanted.
(I never noticed the adults in my life didn’t do such things. Their nightstands held such prosaic things as jars of Vicks and nail clippers.)
Which brings us to the sadness…..
I am an adult now. And I don’t have vases full of flowers by my bed. I have a humidifier and an inhaler.
Those peonies I loved so much. They are always full of ants. I don’t want to bring ants into the house.
The fancy drinking glasses….well, wouldn’t it look silly to drink my bedtime water out of some kind of wineglass? In fact, much of the time, I don’t even bother with water. I’m too busy. I forget.
The rose bush, that wonderful and magical plant that meant so much to me…it was chopped down because someone decided it was too much trouble to mow around it. (God, some small part of me wails broken-heartedly at the knowledge I can never get that rose back.)
For some frickin’ reason, so much of adulthood is like this.
I’m 48 years old now. I can do anything I want. I can wear anything I want. Be anything I want to be.
Do I glide around in flowing gowns? No.
Most of the time, I’m in Bermuda shorts and a t-shirt. Those flowing gowns….they’re too hot, or they cost too much, or people would give me funny looks….or……or….there is always some boring reason to be practical
All of those wonderful imaginings we had as children. Life takes them away.
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But today, I had a slice of coconut cake for breakfast.
I justified it by telling myself I’ve been sick. I’m allowed to eat whatever I can tolerate. But some little part of me, maybe the little girl part, laughed in delight at one small win. Cake for breakfast.
Maybe we should let the ghosts of our small selves win more often. Take back what we have lost.
And, something tells me our future selves, the 80 year olds yet-to-be, want us to reclaim that joy and hope.
‘Cause maybe childlike wonder and re-found innocence matter more than we busy adults realize.
Tonight…..
I think I’ll pull out a beautiful cut glass tumbler for bedtime…. and look for a rose.