Growing Space

Summary:
From the book, "Break Out: Finding Freedom When You Don't Quite Fit The Mold," a modern literary memoir of 51 short stories about what it means to be presumed different.

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"Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards."
Soren Kierkegaard
Life

"Why does your tree do so well?" Liz, Sam Jansen's administrative assistant, asked as she helped me pack the last of my books from the overhead bins above my desk into banker's boxes.

My weeping fig tree was not weeping at all. Thick with dark, green leaves, its branches commanded one corner of my office, and, over the years, I had to occasionally turn the tree so they would not annoyingly invade the space normally belonging to my visitors who sat on the window side of my circular conference table.

"The secret is in the rocks," I confided to Liz. "And, having a large enough pot. The roots need growing space."

Sheila, my sole associate in the communications department at the time, and I had purchased the tree from a local flower shop when Sam first became president in 1977. It was such a little thing.

But, my mom came over from the farm one night and helped us re-pot it. She poured a small bag of white rock into the bottom of the pot, which looked huge at the time. It took three big bags of potting soil to fill it up.

"And, you haven't done anything to it since then?" Liz asked again.

"Not really," I replied. "Just added some soil once in awhile, watered it regularly and kept turning it every so often to give each branch a chance at the sun."

It was March 31, 1994, the day I retired from my job. After 28 years with the same organization and 17 years with the same weeping fig tree providing a softer touch to my office, I had no feeling of remorse or loss. I was intent in building a second career with a little more breathing space for myself.

I had thought about transferring the fig tree to the new home Pam, my wife, and I had built in 1985, but somehow we never found the right spot for it. By that time, it was six feet tall and had branches spanning a diameter of more than five feet. It would have been difficult to move.

Somehow it seemed right to have it in my office because it was a daily reminder of who I was.

My parents had been dairy farmers all their lives -- and members of one of the 30 predecessor cooperatives which had merged and consolidated over the years to form Wisconsin Dairies.

As a dairy farmer's wife, Mom had not only helped our family milk registered Brown Swiss twice each day for nearly 35 years but had also kept the records and pedigree of each animal in our barn.

With the same diligence, she had nurtured her children, fostering a self confidence in each of us as we completed grade school, went through high school and graduated from college.

"You make us proud," she would say privately to each one of us. It was her way of giving us growing space. She wanted us to feel "special," to recognize the unique qualities we had within ourselves and the opportunities we had to share those qualities with others. Yet, she knew we would each encounter setbacks and discouragement along the way that would test that self confidence.

As I look back, I could see she was especially concerned about how I would handle my disability as I grew into adulthood.

As a seven-year-old, I would cry in front of a different set of passengers every Monday morning as I boarded a Greyhound bus at Spring Green for a week at orthopedic school and my "weekday" second parents in Madison. I didn't want to face the uncertainty of another week away from home.

But, at 13, I dreaded coming back home from Madison to face the unforeseeable difficulties of attending a local, "regular" high school.

And, I remember crying in front of my family at 18 because I could feel the enormous pressure of "making it" as the "first-born" to enter college. I questioned whether I was up to dealing with all that could possibly go wrong.

Would I be able to preserve my self-esteem as I faced -- from some -- rejection, ridicule and scorn? Would my constructive self-image propel me into new opportunities of which I had not yet dreamed?

"Sam can have the tree," I finally said to Liz, as I turned out the lights in my now-bare office and stepped next door to glance at Sam's scraggly weeping fig, which had been struggling for survival since the mid 1980s.

"He'll appreciate that," She replied. "His looks so awful. We haven't been able to do much with it."

Putting the tree into Sam's office was more appropriate and better for it. His corner office faced the west and south, so it would receive both the morning and afternoon sun and welcome both overalled dairy farmer and dark-suited business man as they first walked in to greet him.

The right legacy, I thought, as I walked through the executive wing of the office one last time. The tree was well-established, and the rocks in the bottom of the pot were giving the roots just the right drainage.

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