Monday, September 3, 2012

The Last One


"All I can say is, it's worth the struggle to discover who you really are and how you, in your own way, can put life together as something that means a lot to you." ~Mister Rogers (whose words are as relevant to me now as they were when I was 5).

This is my last post on Flower Blog.

I turn 30 in just a few short weeks. I am ready for it. And that kind of surprises me. A year ago, the rapidly approaching end of my twenties made me feel slightly queasy as I frantically took stock of where I’d been and where I was going, mentally adding up all the should be’s on my By the Time I Turn 30 List. I asked myself repeatedly what the hell did you do with yourself for the last decade and where are you supposed to be right now?

The answer came to me slowly and not all at once; but it came through loud and clear.

Exactly where you are right. Now.

I am exactly where I am supposed to be right now
(especially if that place is on top of a mountain).

I spent 29 with that list in the back of my mind, doing everything I could to pull my life together into what it was supposed to be by the time I turn 30. I applied for a job as Development and Marketing Associate with the Vail Symposium, and I got it. I came up with a financial plan to get myself out of debt once and for all so I can travel instead of daydreaming about travel, and so I can stop complaining about not having a car and just buy one already. I ticked some small adventures off my bucket list and did more yoga. I grew comfortable and more confident with myself and found myself enjoying being single, rather than lamenting it.

About a month ago I realized there was nothing left on the list, and not because I had ticked everything off, but because the list simply didn’t exist anymore. I realized I don’t need the deadline of a birthday to accomplish my goals, or any other deadline for that matter. I’m constantly growing and changing, and constantly working toward my goals, and, at any given moment, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

And now, with just a few weeks to go until I turn 30, I feel at peace with leaving behind the (wonderful) chaos of my twenties for a new decade (which I have no doubt will be filled with its own boughts of wonderful chaos).

My twenties have been a heartbreakingly beautiful madness of mistakes and corrections, of lessons and stumbling around searching for answers—much of which has been documented here on Flower Blog.

Six months ago I started feeling stuck with this blog, I lost my motivation to write for it. Every thing I did attempt to write felt forced and generic, and it all started to feel like a chore. This summer I even tried starting a new blog, except it was still Flower Blog, just in a different spot. I deleted it yesterday. It just didn’t work. My frustration has been mounting with it all, and I’ve been trying to figure out what to do differently, what to do to make it fun and interesting again. 

Recently it hit me.

It doesn’t work anymore not because it’s broken, but because it has come to the end. Flower Blog has been written. This is the story of my twenties. It is a story that at times I knew I was writing, chronicling adventures and moments from the past, and at times I wrote because it was the only thing I could do to survive in that moment. It’s all here.

Reading back through some of my favorites is like flipping through a scrapbook:

Grandpa Flower (my Grandpa Flower passed away in February. The memories captured in this post are even sweeter to me now than they were when I wrote this post a few years ago.)

Some of these memories are painful to remember, but beautiful in their pain, and so very important to my story:


And a few more snapshots of moments and memories:


I started Flower Blog to hold me accountable to my writing. It certainly did that. I feel more motivated now than ever to write. That I have grown as a writer through writing this is undeniable. I am ready for a new challenge now. Whether that means starting a new blog or finally sitting down to write a book, or both, I’m not sure. But I am sure that I will keep writing, and I will continue to share my words. Thank you for finding me here, and for reading. It has been a pleasure to have you on this journey with me. Until we meet again (and I certainly hope that we do), cheers.

~Tracey 

Thursday, January 5, 2012

What I'm Not and Other Mini Confessions

by Tracey Flower

It’s a new year. 2012 has arrived. It’s only Week 1 but so far it’s feeling pretty good.

As I was mulling over my options for resolutions this year, I stumbled on this post (Jenny Blake Inspires—White Lies) by Grace Boyle at Small Hands, Big Ideas and it inspired me to take a different direction when it comes to personal reflection in 2012.

There are things about myself I worked on in 2011; there were goals I worked toward, and some I even achieved. There are things I want to work on in 2012; I suppose we can call them resolutions. The thing is, though, there are always things in my life I want to work on or work toward. I talk about them here every now and then, and check in with myself on a regular basis to see how I'm going.

What I don’t often talk about are my flaws, the quirks and faults that make me ME. Charming or annoying as they may be, they are mine and, rather than resolve to change or fix them this year, I want to share them and embrace them, because quite frankly, I’m pretty sure there’s nothing I can do to be rid of them, and I’m certain there is strength to be gained in accepting them. So here are 6 mini confessions by yours truly.

1. I’m not a very good snowboarder. Nor am I a very good athlete in general. Never have been. This is not to say I’m not fond of sports and things athletic and adventurous—I love being outside and participating in outdoor activities—I just have no aptitude for athletic stuff. I live in the largest ski resort in North America (Vail), also the fittest county (Eagle) in the country, snowboarding and skiing are kind of a big deal here. Athletic success in adventure and endurance sports is valued here. I try many of these sports. I’m not very good at a single one. I’m regularly wracked with insecurity because of it.

2. I’M A LOUD TALKER. So is my dad. I’ll just go ahead and blame that one on him.

3. I’m a neat freak. Not to be confused with a germaphobe. I don’t obsessively wash my hands or over-sanitize. It’s more to do with liking things a certain way—everything in my house and my workspace has its place, and I don’t like it when things aren’t in their place. I like things clean and tidy. You know Monica on "Friends?" It’s kind of (exactly) like that.

4. I’m not totally OK with being single. I’m lonely. I’m not in any rush to be married. Nor am I yearning for a family—I’m not even sure I want children. I just want a partner. Don’t get me wrong; I am not unhappy with my single life. I have a very fulfilling life with a promising future—I know what I want from my life and for myself and I’m fully prepared to go after all if it even if it’s just me on my own. If I'm single for 10 more years, or even for all of my years, I’m sure I will die content and happy, having traveled and written and lived. I’m not in a desperate hunt to acquire a boyfriend; I’m just recognizing that this loneliness exists. I’m also not trying to fill it with anything other than companionship. If it never gets filled, I can live with that, but I’m not sure I’ll ever be totally OK with it.

5. I don’t drive. I know how to drive. I have a driver’s license. I am fully capable of operating a motor vehicle, but I prefer not to. The last time I drove was in May (2011), the time before that was the previous May (2010). I should note that I don’t own a car (for financial reasons) and, while I admit that I often wish I could afford to own one so I could enjoy the freedom that comes with being able to take oneself anywhere on no one else’s schedule, I hate driving and it makes me terribly nervous. Oh, I also find it impossible to stay awake as a passenger in a moving car. I’m usually out cold within the first 15-20 minutes. Yes, I’m that person.

6. I’m a chronic (champion) procrastinator. For the record I’ve never met a writer who isn’t. It goes like this: I have a chunk of time that has been set aside for writing, that should, for all purposes be used for writing, but the deadline is still another day or two away, or at the very least a few hours away. I sit down to write and crank out a title or a sentence then—wait!—I should probably sweep the kitchen floor (see number 3) or shop for curtains online or OH MY! that’s a big bird outside my window, I should probably take a photo.


Whew! That felt good. Your turn.