The Little Rose Bush that Could

I have lived in my house for almost six years now. Since it is a townhouse, I am technically not in charge of the plants outside my home. They are in the "common area" and therefore the responsibility of the homeowners association, who has hired a series of gardening companies to do the task.

Just outside my front door are two rather anemic plants. One is a gardenia and the other a rose bush. They planted a bit too close to the house, so the angle of the sun rarely gets past the eaves of the roof to reach the plants. It usually takes them all summer just to produce a bloom or two, at which point the gardeners inevitably whack off all the flowers as part of their periodic "pruning."

Not being very knowledgeable about gardening, and definitely wanting to avoid run-ins with the HOA, I have watched helplessly as these plants, especially the rose bush, remained tiny and flowerless year after year.

Well, this summer, the rose bush has suddenly sprouted. Amazingly, this bush put out a branch much thicker and stronger than the rest. The branch grew straight upward, quickly surpassing the other branches, which hover around 2 feet tall. And then it just kept growing, and growing and growing and growing....

Eventually the branch hit the eaves of the roof, and still kept going, curving over slightly so it could grow along the roof line. And then the fateful day that I had been dreading came pruning day. The current gardening company is not quite as opposed to greenery as the others we have had in the last few years. Nevertheless, the branch did get a trim, bringing it back down to about 4 feet high.

At that point, I thought it was over. An unlikely spurt nipped in the bud. But the plant had other plans. About an inch below the spot where it had been trimmed, a side branch began sprouting. Withing days, the side branch turned upward and just continued on the path straight towards the roof that it was on before pruning day. And now, it has reached the eaves yet again, and is bending and snaking around, still growing several inches a day.

I must admit that I am fascinated with this rose bush! It is almost as if it has just decided, "I am tired of being stunted by lack of sunlight, overzealous gardeners, and every other factor beyond my control. I am just going to find a way to thrive on my own, and nothing will stop me." What an inspiration for me, and anyone else who ever felt that they were living below their potential. We can just follow the rose bush's example and find a way to thrive no matter what!

Above is a photo of my cat,
Bugsy, staring amazed
at the rose bush.

Olympics Mania

Guess what I am doing right now (other than writing this entry). I am watching the Olympics, of course! I turned down several invitations this weekend. Going to a dance, the bead show, a free concert in the park...nothing could tempt me away from the couch. Even a new episode of Monk, my favorite TV show, was recorded to watch later - after the Olympics.

So, why do I go so crazy for the Olympics? I mean, I am not a huge sports fan. I love the Dodgers. I get really excited about NCAA basketball, especially my Georgetown Hoyas. I watch the Super Bowl. But I don't really watch track meets, volleyball games or diving championships regularly. I roll my eyes when I visit my parents' house and find them glued to the Tour de France or Wimbledon on TV.

I did, however, spend much of my time during my formative years at swim meets. No, not competing, or watching either. I was just being an annoying toddler, distracting my mother while she tried to cheer on my sister Heidi, who was a truly exceptional swimmer.

But I think the addiction really started in 1984 - when the Olympics came to Los Angeles. The only event that I actually attended was dressage (for all of you non-equestrian types, that means horse dancing), since that is my father's passion. But my mother made sure that my sister Karen and I had a real Olympic experience. We visited the Olympic villages at UCLA and USC and saw the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum (which also hosted the 1932 Olympics). We saw the torch relay. We traded Olympic pins, and bought silly sunglasses shaped like the Olympic rings. And most importantly, we watched the televised gymnastics competitions.

With all of the American gymnastic success in 1984, it was quite an exciting time for an impressionable 10-year-old. I am sureI was already taller than Mary Lou Retton, the gold medal winning U.S. star. But I was entranced. I couldn't decide who I had a bigger crush on - Peter Vidmar or Bart Conner, both of whom won individual gold's in addition to the men's team gold. I was fascinated with the names of the Russian and Romanian athletes - especiall Ecaterina Szabo.

After the Olympics were over, my best friend, Shani, and I watched all of the made-for-television movies about Nadia Comenici, and I blushed when Shani told me I looked like Nadia's teammate, Teodora, when I wore my long, straight hair in a ponytail. We came up with our own competitions, which mostly consisted of doing somersaults on our beds, or flips onto rafts in the swimming pools in our backyards. We invented exotic names for ourselves and countries to compete for and gave each other scores. It is a minor miracle that we didn't seriously injure ourselves doing the "balance beam" on the tile separator between the hot tub and pool at Shani's house. Looking back now, I wonder where our parents were, and if the overly supervised, video game watching kids of today get the chance be as creative and free as we were during the long, hot San Fernando Valley summers.

I still love watching gymnastics, but now I am fascinated with another aspect of the Olympics. I am tirelessly curious about the random faces in the crowd. This year it first struck me during the spectacular opening ceremonies. Reportedly, there were over 15,000 Chinese performers. At one point, after a technically amazing demonstration, the performers took boxes off of themselves to reveal that it was humans putting on the show, not machines. In the sea of performers, who were apparently chosen for their identical appearances, there was one man who caught my eye. He was grinning in delight.

I can't help but wonder about this man. What is his life like? How did he get this job? What job will he go back to after all of the Olympic excitement is over? Does his life in China have anything in common with mine? One of my friends was a performer in the opening ceremonies of the 1984 Olympics. She was a child actress who could be seen in TV commercials. Of 1.3 billion Chinese people, how many dare to dream of such a life?

Other faces in the crowd intrigue me just as much. Today, while watching the women's marathon, I noticed an Algerian athlete. Unlike the others in their skin-tight spandex hardly covering more than my bikini does, she wore a normal length pair of shorts and a t-shirt thatt covered her whole stomach. As a woman from a Muslim country, how is she treated back home? Is she seen as heroic or scandalous? What about the Kenyan runners? Do they come from a remote village like the ones I see in National Georgraphic magazine or a big city with cars and cell phones and video games? What is it like for them to travel the world and compete?

My heart soars for the Jamaican track star who shattered the world record to become the fastest man in the world. I am inspired by Dara Torres (she went to my high school!) who, at age 41, doesn't allow a that to determine her ability level, beating swimmers who weren't even born yet the first time she competed in the Olympics. My heart bleeds for the injured athletes who were laid up on their first steps and may never realize their Olympic dreams.

I love my country and am proud of all the U.S. Olympic accomplishments. But there is something about the Olympics that reminds me that we are more connected by our humanity than we are separated by our nationalities.

And the best part - there is still another week to go. If you were thinking about inviting me to do anything between now and August 24th, consider yourself warned!