Last fall, at the age of 43, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. No family history, no genetic markers. I ended up being the luckiest of the unlucky — my lump was small and not growing, and after my lumpectomy, it was determined I could forgo radiation and chemo in favor of regular MRIs. It almost felt unfair to be so lucky.
As a woman of a certain age, a decade of having children and navigating unexpected health challenges drives home how little control you have over your own body. When I walked out of Prentice Women’s Hospital with a clean bill of health, I decided that, for once, I was going to make a choice that I had complete control over. I was going to get my first tattoo.
I’d never been opposed to a tattoo, but I’d also never had an image I felt compelled to make permanent. (Like how I once said I wasn’t opposed to living in Oak Park but couldn’t imagine life outside the city — and yet, here we are, for the long haul.)
Middle age changes your perspective in unexpected ways. And in that moment, this middle-aged suburban mom knew exactly what tattoo I wanted: my favorite native plant, the Common Spiderwort.
In an urban environment, native plants are the ultimate community builders. There is a native plant for every type of soil, no matter how rich or degraded, and every light condition, from full sun to full shade. Find them the right home, and they thrive. From there, they build deep roots that help them withstand drought and soak up water during heavy rains. They offer food and shelter to butterflies, bees, and other pollinators. And the more diverse the ecosystem, the more resilient and generous it becomes.
What better metaphor for the kind of community I want to be a part of here in Oak Park?
As a relatively new native gardener, I’ve learned my job is not to contain or constrain my plants. I’ve had to accept that natives can sometimes be wild and unpredictable, like our lives — or our children. Once established, they don’t need much watering, but that doesn’t mean they don’t need attention. When a plant struggles, I’ll see if there’s a better spot for it. When a plant gets a little too happy, I’ll divide it and share it with my neighbors, just as many have done with me — because native plants don’t just build communities for bees and butterflies; they build community for us humans, too.
And then there’s the spiderwort, with its slender, graceful leaves and vivid blue blooms. It flowers in that in-between time, after spring ephemerals fade but before summer’s showy blooms appear. Each blossom lasts just one day, opening in the morning and folding up by evening, short-lived but unmistakable. Yet the plant produces enough buds to flower for weeks, bringing new surprises every morning.
I got my tattoo on May 23. My tattoo artist remarked on my ability to sit calmly through 3.5 hours of what had been described to me as “cat scratching on sunburn” (accurate). I told her it was nothing compared to childbirth.
Later that week, the spiderwort in my front yard bloomed for the first time.
Nicole Chavas runs a sustainable planning and design firm in Oak Park. Her kids run everything else.