I have a recurring daydream that goes a little something like this:
A woman is boarding a ship bound for America from the coast of Ireland. She has very little with her, but sewn safely inside the hem of her woolen coat is a cutting of a Christmas cactus that she received from her grandmother, long since passed.
She carries it with her and the weight of her world feels lighter because of it.
As I stare at my Christmas cactus on this December day, in full bloom in an upstairs window of our old home, I replay the daydream. I know the origin of it isn't exactly that of my imagination, but it carries a beautiful history with it, nonetheless.
Mine started as a cutting from my mother, who received a cutting from her mother, who was gifted a cutting from my great-grandmother...and on it goes, even deeper into our lineage.
While some years come and go without its vibrant flowers ever opening, this simple, resilient, and unrelenting Christmas cactus has continued to take root wherever it's been planted, in home after home, through generation after generation.
Not only has it been yet another tie I have to the strong women of my past...
It's a reminder that blooming where we're planted is a matter of strength; of resilience; and of taking up space so that we can spread our light to others.
Much like the joy, warmth, and nostalgia that my Christmas cactus gives me, I've found painting to be what roots me, allowing me to spread my own joy and light to others.
For the women who came in generations before me, it was cooking. It was sewing. It was gardening. It was parenting. It was community service and activism.
Through hardship; through joy; through change, these women kept their heads up and roots planted as they made their mark on this world.
This year, more than any other, my Christmas cactus is blooming in a way it never has before; showing off its color and life with an unprecedented vibrancy.
While I know it's in part due to finding the right light — the north light that also illuminates my studio when I paint from home — I also can't help but think that my Christmas cactus is reminding me that strength, resiliency, and planting our roots is not just possible, but even more necessary when things seem most awry.
When things remain uncertain.
When news seems to be more bad than good.
In passing down a cutting of this Christmas cactus, my mother gave me more than a simple plant.
She gave me a reminder that I have decades; centuries of strong women who've come before me.
She gave me the encouragement to plant my own roots, and to pass not just literal cuttings of this incredible plant to my own kids, but figurative cuttings of what I know down to the students I teach in my painting classes.
With nothing more than the right light, sporadic watering, and very little other attention, this Christmas cactus evokes nostalgia for the past and hope for the future.
This holiday season, I pray you can trust in your own strength and resilience, to plant your own roots and spread your light.
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P.S. Do you have a Christmas cactus? I'd love to hear your story, and see yours in its light!