Bougainvilleas grow effortlessly in the Dominican Republic. Vibrant and beautiful, they’re sturdy vines that blossom year round and don’t usually mind the unpredictable climate. To this day, they’re one of my favorite blooms.
I spent most of my childhood and early teenage years reveling in their bursts of color: pink, orange, purple, and even the occasional yellow. Whether it was driving through hectic city traffic in Santo Domingo, or cruising down the highway on the way to the beach, I found them impossible to miss—they added life and beauty to otherwise unassuming places.

It was my junior year of high school when I asked my mom if I could attempt to grow pink bougainvilleas in planters outside my bedroom window. My plan was simple: I’d plant the bougainvilleas, let the wonderful Dominican sun and rain take over, and eventually I’d watch as my bedroom window got covered in bright blooms.
Beautifying the landscape is what bougainvilleas do best. However, resilient as they may be, even they succumb to their immortality from time to time. I learned the hard way that they were not keen on pots and preferred growing on the ground—roots deep in the soil—where they could climb and blossom as they pleased. I also discovered that the sun shone most intensely on the side of my parent’s house where my bedroom window sat.
You’re probably starting to get the picture: my bougainvilleas didn’t last much. Soon after they were first planted, the scattered blooms on the vine withered, their paper-like petals incinerated by the sun’s (occasional) cruel touch.
Although it’s true that the sun is a source of light and life, it is also often the source of much burden and burning on our island. Understanding these coexisting realities is essential to the everyday lives of all Dominicans.
Sometimes, when I find myself longing for home, I’m tempted to remember only the idyllic parts of growing up and living in the Dominican Republic. I remember the breezy days that come along once in a while, never the unbearable heat. I remember the joy of being close to family, never the tricky dynamics. I remember the whistling ciguas, never the buzzing flies and mosquitoes.
wrote about this temptation in his book The Weight of Glory:These things—the beauty, the memory of our own past—are good images of what we really desire; but if they are mistaken for the thing itself, they turn into dumb idols, breaking the hearts of their worshippers. For they are not the thing itself; they are only the scent of a flower we have not found, the echo of a tune we have not heard, news from a country we have never yet visited.1
You see, it’s easy to romanticize the memory of the things we long for while failing to notice their fickleness. Which is also why it’s easier for me to remember only the good when I’m homesick and nostalgic. However, when we don’t recognize these longings for what they are—a revelation of our true longing for God—we are left only with broken hearts.
We must learn to view our yearnings as a means to discovering “that flower we have not found.” Only then will we be able to truly appreciate and enjoy those things for which we yearn for here on earth—without burdening them with the impossible task of satisfying us.
I'm sure this has been said a million times before, but I think I'll say it again: only God can truly satisfy our deepest, most intimate longings. I don’t say that lightly (for I know some aches can feel heavier and more painful than we can bear), but rather as a truth to which we can cling to when even those things we hold dear fail at living up to our expectations.
Was I disappointed when the bougainvilleas outside my window shriveled up? Absolutely. In fact, I still get a bit sad when I think about those big clay pots full of soil and dead flowers. But then I remember the sun burns hot over this island of mine. It might sometimes wither the flowers, but it also ripens the mangoes, grows the plantains, and gives the Caribbean Sea its turquoise hue.
At the end of the day, what I truly long for is a land with equal amounts of shade and sun, flourishing and resting. Where plants thrive and never wilt. The Dominican Republic isn’t that—it’s not the land to which I truly belong—even when so often her beauty points me there.
I continue to explore these themes of home, longing, and belonging in my debut poetry collection to be released later this summer by
and The Way Back Books. I’m hoping to reveal the title soon and continue to share more about it, but for now, here’s one of the poems you’ll be able to read once it’s out.People of the Land, which further informs this short essay, was first published as part of a mini chapbook I wrote for CHAPPED (a poetry challenge spearheaded by
and of ). Although this piece came to me as a result of that challenge, I have to admit it went straight into my collection!People of the Land
We are people of the land—
made of dust,
from the ground brought up,
formed and shaped
to his likeness.
We are people of the land—
of feet planted,
geographically placed,
divinely ordained
to belong.
We are people of the land—
cradled by lush valleys,
lifted up by sprouting mountains,
lulled by rushing rivers,
moved forward by surging seas.
We are people of the land—
but what land? For certainly this land
(the one our feet can squish and fingers touch)
will soon fade into the dust
that brought us forth.
We are people of a far off land—
that no eye has seen nor ear has heard
and here, on this land,
we merely sojourn and practice
the act of wholly belonging.
- r.e.g
What land do you long for? How has place/land/country informed who you are and what you long for? How have your experiences with the land (whether positive or negative) led you to realize you are truly longing for a far off land? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.
Also, just in case you guys missed it,
is currently open for submissions to their upcoming summer issue: ROOTED. If you can’t already tell, I’m passionate about this topic!Here’s to more living in light of eternity,
- Rosa Gilbert
C.S. Lewis, The Weight of Glory
One of my favorite songs is called “Bougainvillea Blues” by The Dip. Ha.
https://open.spotify.com/track/6DKsC0O2dxzhHSf4bwXdjT?si=pEpiDjK0TLK0oRf3TdiHNw
Loved this accompanying of thought and verse, really lovely to read and meditate on this evening.
I, too, grew up with so many bougainvilleas in my southern California backyard, where my mom still lives and, at 89, cultivates her decades-old plants. Ah, those bright, crepey bracts!