Lois in Progress

I stared at the blue skies first, then at my blue pea flower vine crawling along the wooden bamboo trellis I made. They look so carefree, despite knowing their bloom would last only twelve hours.

I counted. Seventeen. There were seventeen flowers.

I picked them all. Fresh, bright indigo, earthy-smelling, and ready to be brewed. As I waited for the water to reach the right temperature, I set aside eight flowers for tea and pressed the rest, knowing they’d spend weeks, maybe even months, tucked between heavy books before finding their way into my botanical art.

I wondered if my twenty-something self had ever imagined that, at this point in my life, I’d find joy in brewing blue pea flower tea that I grew in my own garden. That I’d patiently wait for the water to turn deep blue while pressing flowers for art. I don’t think that version of me would have believed it. Not even for a second.

What I imagined back then was something entirely different. I thought I’d become this badass entrepreneur who hustled day and night, known for the businesses she built, probably engaged to a trophy fiancé, driving a nice car, and living in an exclusive neighborhood. It’s almost funny how I measured success and happiness back then. Because almost none of it happened, YET IM IMMENSELY HAPPY.

I mean, it’s not that none of it happened. Some of the things I worked so hard for actually came true. I can reluctantly admit that I reached the level of recognition I once wanted. For a while, I was everywhere. People knew what I stood for, what my businesses were, and the image I wanted to project. It helped drive sales too. At one point, it almost felt like fame equaled money. There were also seasons of good-looking lovers, picture-perfect relationships, traveling, reinventing myself… and all the things I once believed would make a beautiful life.

All of that happened. But it didn’t last very long.

Somewhere along the way, I got tired of chasing that version of myself. And on top of that, life also happened.

My dad passed away. The pandemic came. A breakup followed, etc. One difficult season rolled into another until I hardly recognized the person I had become. Life pulled me into a version of myself I never planned for. I cried quietly in corners of our home where no one could hear me. It was there that I learned life isn’t lived only at the top. Eventually, all of us fall. And when we do, it’s our resilience that determines whether we stand up again quickly… or slowly.

About six years have passed since then, and I think this has been the greatest interior shift of my life. The kind no one really witnesses except God. I’ve been away from social media for years, not because I disappeared, but because I needed the discipline to become someone better. Somewhere along the way, I learned to slow down. I learned to be content with what I already have. More and more, I believe contentment is what quietly determines a person’s happiness. This is the most withdrawn I’ve ever been, but strangely, it’s also the most meaningful version of myself I’ve ever known.

Some people can’t believe this is who I’ve become whenever we happen to meet. I’m rarely in the city now. I talk less. I’m hardly online. I’m almost the complete opposite of the person they used to know. I also stopped explaining why. These days, I have limited energy, and I’ve become more careful about where I spend it. So I simply smile and say, “Ah yeah, life happened, but I’m good. Thanks for asking.” Then I say goodbye, move forward, or go home. 😅

This is also the furthest I’ve ever felt from being an artist. For a long time, I blamed my father’s death for the decline of my creativity, but I think I’ve stayed there long enough. It’s time to begin again, even if it means something as easy as writing a digital letter to everyone interested to follow on my journey, or making botanical art.

I’d love to share what I’ve learned in both the dark and the light while living this quieter, more isolated life. And honestly? This isn’t the life I once pictured for myself. I have absolutely no idea where my life is headed. I’m simply trying to rebuild after leaving behind investments, time, friendships, dreams, and versions of myself I had quietly outgrown.

I guess I have to start somewhere.

Maybe this is what rebuilding actually looks like.

Not waiting until life becomes lighter, but making a life with the strength that’s available today, even with the life constraints that surround it.

I’m excited to see what kind of artistic life can still grow within these challenges: an aging mother, an unfinished house, a long-distance relationship, property disputes, legal concerns, financial limitations, health issues, my own inner battles…and whatever else life decides to add to the list.

Seeing the pea flowers sway gently in the breeze gives me hope. Their blooms may only last twelve hours, but they still open anyway. Fully. Quietly. Happily.

Life doesn’t wait for our constraints to disappear before asking us to bloom. It simply asks what kind of life we can still make with the energy we have today.