Once per year, the Jacarandas bloom. It’s sticky. It’s messy. And it’s wonderful.
There’s a large Jacaranda tree right in our front yard. It’s blooming. It’s beautiful.
Its roots often grow into our plumbing. The sap gets all over our cars. Our neighbors tried to convince us to cut it down shortly after we moved in.
I told them, calmly, “Over my dead body.”
My husband rolled his eyes, knowing there were a thousand other ways to get the same point across without so quickly initiating our new neighbors into the intensity of my personality. I didn’t care. I wanted my point known.
I love everything about these trees. Whether or not they’re blooming.
Their branches look like they’re in a permanent “Ta Da” formation, as if they’d just nailed a fantastic gymnastics routine.
There are some down the street that get hacked at once per year to make room for the wires that bring electricity to everyone on my block. Despite the abuse, they continue growing and blooming.
And once per year — usually somewhere around the end of May and early June — they put on an all out show.
Their usual leaves fall off and they look barren for a moment. But it’s not long before their magnificent lavender leaves take over. On a street full of otherwise green trees, they attract attention with incredible purple.
They look like they’re bragging, audaciously holding out flowers that nearly touch the sky while sticking their tongues out at the plants stuck on the ground.
They smell like a woman at an expensive boutique who doesn’t want to overwhelm you, but wants you to know that she’s there.
They don’t care how much of a mess they’re making. They’ve earned this moment. And they’re owning every bit of it.
I’m obsessed with these trees.
And I also very much identify with them.
I’ve always been a project-based person. I love routines for structure, but have never been a big fan of predictability. I like seasons.
For a period of my life, I was focused solely on social relationships. Another season was all about learning and performing as much as I could — any time, anywhere.
In this season of motherhood, my energy has become significantly limited and my attention is a valuable commodity. As a keynote speaker, I have a season where I sell my programs, and a season where I intensely tour them.
I spend most of the year sending emails, detailing contracts, cold calling, working with my other speakers, improving and editing the program, updating marketing materials, and any other small task that comes up. It’s tedious, but important.
I’m also dedicated to being a present and playful mother, so these tasks happen in short spurts in the mornings before I spend my days with my young children. Being a full-time caretaker is challenging. The days can be long. But it’s a precious time. And it’s important to me that I’m present during it.
For a few weeks every year, though, I get to let loose and shine. I bloom.
I’m like the blooming Jacaranda trees, screaming “Look at me!” I’m unapologetically commanding attention and owning my space as I tour the country, traveling from city to city and from stage to stage. The whole year feeds into these few weeks. I get to bloom.
Soon, though, the leaves fall off completely and the tree is bare for a time. The standard, green leaves grow back for the rest of the year. These are beautiful leaves, too. There’s nothing wrong with them. But they’re not what the Jacaranda knows it can produce.
But part of the magic of the tree is that it only shows off when the time is right. It does the work necessary to make sure the blooming season is as magnificent as possible. And then it goes back to blending in like all the other green trees on the street.
I love the Jacarandas.
I am a Jacaranda.
