I’ve made an odd discovery. Every time I talk to a savant I feel quite sure that happiness is no longer a possibility. Yet when I talk with my gardener, I’m convinced of the opposite. ~Bertrand Russell

This is a picture of my Christmas cactus, blooms bursting open on every stem. I’m always confused, then curious, then thrilled when I see even one bud, so this season’s bounty astonishes me. For years, plants committed suicide when I brought them into my house. There are ghosts of ferns and bamboo and–yes, Devin–Norfolk pines haunting each window I stare out of.

The last few years, that’s changed. I’ve barely killed anything (disclaimer: the soul of an asparagus fern lies heavy on my conscience. It didn’t make it through the summer). Overall, though, I feel as if I’ve discovered that I’m Tom Bombadil’s hidden sister. Logical people point out that I have well placed windows in the house I’m living in, and that I’ve learned what a watering can does–but I’m sure it’s more than that.

At this point in my life,  a point when it often feels as if there’s more behind me than before me, and that my contributions are destined to be applauding on the sidelines as others take the stage–surprises such as my newly-green thumb remind me that the story’s not over yet, and there may be bursts of life just waiting to bloom around me, too. And if that’s not good, what is?