My pineapple is dying.
Despite constant reassurances that pineapples grow well in containers and that it is nearly impossible to kill one, mine continues to wither and crumble a little more each day. I should have tossed it out already, given up hope that it could make a full recovery. Instead, I go out each day and move it to follow the sun across my balcony, sweet talking to it and begging it just try a little harder.
This morning I wondered if that is some kind of glimpse into my life as a whole. Holding on to things long after they’re gone, not willing to accept when it is really over.
My mother was a hoarder. Her mother too, to be honest. Holding on to things long after their usefulness runs in my blood. But instead of boxes of old newspapers and stacks of garage sale clutter, I hold on to people, places, and feelings. Like them, I never know when to let go. What should have been a short fling turned into a ten year marriage that we both left miserable and defeated. What was supposed to be a temporary stay to get back on my feet became a permanent residence. Guilt, anger, and pain that I should have worked through years ago are still the background noise of my day.
Sure, I don’t have trash piling up in the corners, but don’t think that means I’m not hoarding something.
So the big question becomes “when do you let go?”. When is the relationship over verses just going through a rough spot? When is it time to move verses time for a vacation? When do you stop feeling guilty for things you have done? And when do you accept that the damn plant is not going to make it after all?