*This blog has been written by a guest writer, who, despite my most earnest cajoling, remained firm in their desire to remain anonymous. Please feel free to share any encouraging thoughts generously.❤️
It’s the morning after the hailstorm. Tending to a garden full of broken plants… talking to them –broken and bedraggled–cleaning up all of the shredded stems, petals, and leaves and saying, “You’ll be ok; you’ll be alright. Nature has a way of making these things ok.” I giggle to myself as I realize I’m telling plants about how nature works. Rubbing lavender and rosemary between my fingers, I continue my botanical mothering. “Like with wild fires, some things can’t live until other things die. You’ll see, beauty will come of this.”
I sit with myself, hearing my own words echo in my ears. Seeing them so beaten and ugly, with their jagged edges–the most beautiful parts of them torn away and shriveling up on the pavement, I gently and methodically place the pots back into the sunshine, tending to the broken stems and clearing away what’s dead from what’s still alive. That which “no longer serves” them. This idea has become like a tentative mantra as of late–to let go of, to shed what no longer serves me. (Tentative because it sounds so selfish and there is not supposed to be a “me” in motherhood or marriage. Right?)
There’s the most gentle sunshine, soft and just enough to make me want to turn my face upwards but not enough to burn my cheeks. There’s a breeze that somehow feels and smells like the mountains–so very different from the city. Maybe it’s just fresh. Clean. The storm last night has brought with it renewal and cleansing. So I tell my plants, “Just rest here in the sunshine and enjoy the gentle breeze. You will heal. Just rest now.” I stroke the remaining leaves with love and care and try to osmosis-ly transfer healing and restoration into them.
I sit back again as the power of what I’m telling these other living beings settles way down in my heart. I need to start caring for myself as I care for these plants. I’ve frequently had the thought to care for myself as I do my children but even that carries with it the smudge of human imperfection. There are misperceptions, miscommunications, feelings, fears, and all forms of self-defense. Plants know ONLY the natural order of exactly how they were created to be. My plants know how to heal, despite being dependent on external sources for sustenance, just as animals know to stop moving when they are injured–to lie still, away from danger, even foregoing food, to just rest and allow for healing.
I start thinking about being attuned to myself as well as I am attuned to my plants. If I see that there are too few buds forming, I move them either into the longer day of the morning sun or out of the hot afternoon sun. If they are wilting and droopy, I give them more water. If they have aphids, I clean them off or give them ladybugs to eat away the pests. If only I could learn to be so attuned to my own needs. When do I need to rest? When do I need sustenance? When is the right time to open up? When do I need to move away from something? When do I need to move toward something?
Most mornings, I go out to the garden when the air is still cool and sit down where the fragrances are the strongest. There was one morning I was sitting next to my only rose bush and found it very interesting to see all of the various life cycle stages of the flower all on one plant. From the tightly formed buds, to the opening fledgling blossom, then to the ever-pleasing favorite–the fully bloomed and fully fragrant. This is the climax, the pinnacle of the life of the flower, yet I kept moving. I found the ones that were starting to dry out on the edges, then further still as they began to drop their petals and show signs of fatigue and creeping toward death. Obviously, the very last stage is when all of the petals have fallen and any remaining devoted energies can be diverted elsewhere. This thought occupied my mind and even made my heart groan with love for God. For, we too, were created to live shamelessly like this. When flowers age and die, they do so in full bloom, in all of their magnificence, vibrance, and splendor. They don’t hide. They don’t feel shame at no longer being beautiful. They don’t try to desperately grasp at and hold on to what their life used to be. With unimaginable dignity they drop petal by petal, and letting go of what no longer serves them, they go out fiercely–alive and free.
