79 isn’t a particularly interesting number, but when I realized that today would mark my 79th drabble for this blog, I was a little taken aback.
I feel like I’m in a constant state of questioning whether I am cut out for this. By ‘this’ I mean a bit of everything–writing, mostly, but I’m always wondering whether I’m any good at anything at all. It’s not a matter of asking for compliments or reassurance, either, because if I wasn’t actually confident in my writing to some degree, I wouldn’t put it online for other people to read.
Still, doubt creeps in. The other day I scrubbed mold out of a windowsill and wondered how it got there, how it got so bad. Why didn’t I notice? Why didn’t I catch it sooner? It’s that slow, incremental growth that gets you, and, even when it’s cleaned up, you punish yourself for letting it get that way in the first place.
I should quit, I think. And then I follow that thought back to its source, a dark, brittle little thing that sends shoot and tendrils outward until they choke out everything else. I can’t kill it. I can’t stop it. But I can deal with it, whether it’s with bleach and a paper towel or my own dogged determination to outgrow it.
Anyway, here’s a drabble.
(n.) From latin flos for ‘flower’
Roman goddess of spring, youth, and fertility.
Youth have no patience, the other gods say. Why spend your time on children who will only fritter away your gifts? They are frivolous and wild and wholly ungrateful. Better to share your knowledge with adults who know its value.
Still, Flora sows her seeds in the children’s hearts. She teaches them to till soil and tend sprouts with care. Many fail—most fail, in fact—but those who fail have time to learn, and plenty to teach them.
Why the youth? the gods ask, and Flora can only smile.
Children are notoriously bad gardeners, but still, they will grow.