Long Live the Late Bloomers

I’ve been entertaining the possibility that I am a late bloomer. Lacking the list of the accomplishments I thought I might’ve had by now—articles published, peace accords brokered, one-woman shows—I Google others and think, while reading a long list of their worldly accomplishments, that I’ve frittered away time. Not that I’ve exactly been flapping in my own breeze, I’ve earned two advanced degrees, seen much of the world and contributed my talents to a number of efforts important to me, hopefully also for the betterment of my community and the globe.

A year before my maternal grandmother died, she said to me, “I’m ready for my production number.” We then joked about what her production number might include: a chorus line, lavish costumes and a pit orchestra. At the same time I marveled that she knew she was done and though I know I’m nowhere near done, I wondered what it must feel like to be done. Though her general health was excellent, her sight was failing and she took her own life just a few weeks before her 93rd birthday.

Genetics being a fairly good indicator, I figure I might have another 50 years to improve my Google results. This is encouraging news because I feel so full of possibility and desire.

Recently I read about “a strange new breed of palm tree in Madagascar that flowers once every 100 years and then dies.” The trees are called Tahina spectabilis. (Tahina, a Malagasy word meaning to be protected or blessed, and spectabilis, being Latin for spectacular.)

Referred to as “the suicide palms,” after living anywhere from 50 to 100 years and growing to an immense height, the stem tip develops a giant gathering of buds and bursts into branches of hundreds of tiny flowers dripping with nectar, attracting a party of birds and insects. However, as the article in The Week Magazine reported, “the colorful display and the production of fruit is so taxing that the nutrient reserves of the palm run dry as soon as it fruits and the entire tree collapses and dies.”

Instead of suicide I’d like to think more in terms of a final burst of spectacular blessings (as the tree’s name suggests), the accumulation of life’s loves and accomplishments. I think of my grandmother and the palms, kicking up their heels in their final production numbers like something from a Broadway musical, and I know that with the spectacular “blessings trees” as my guides, I have plenty more time to bloom. I am nowhere near done!

Postscript: As I write this, the California State Supreme Court just overturned a ban on same-sex marriage. I am single with no partner or particular inclination toward marriage in sight. However, considering I’m figuring on another 50 years (give or take), lets say my options and RIGHTS were just increased by a predominantly Republican Court—and that feels damn good!