“People are like plants: they grow toward the light.”
~ Hope Jahren, author, Lab Girl
It happened again yesterday. Just as I was feeling the cumulative weight of winter emotionally, spiritually, and even physically, I walked out to feel the sun on my face and then dared to look down to see if any perennial bulbs had poked through the ground yet. To my delight, there were a few tulip leaf tips making their way through the dirt! Seconds later, that giddy delight was met with frustration. “Wait!” A voice in my head and heart exclaimed. “Didn’t you plant more bulbs than this?!? Did the deer get them? The rabbits?” I paused and realized, there used to be more tulips in the spring. My delight was replaced with sadness and – if I’m honest – a wee bit of unrelated pent up anger.
As I tried to navigate my intense and unexplainably mixed up emotions, I stepped into the garden, knelt down, and took a closer look. I discovered tiny tips of green trying to find their way out toward the light. The bulbs were down there, and they were TRYING to grow, as their weak thin leaves tried to break ground, but over the years, in my attempt to keep the weeds at bay, I had added layers of weed barrier and mulch to the garden, most years just adding on top of what had been there the year before. (Have I mentioned I do NOT have a green thumb?!?)
And, yesterday, whether I recognized it in the moment or not, I was turning my garden and these flowers into metaphors — even wake-up calls — perhaps because these particular tulips have extra significance for me. In fall of 2016, my husband Andy was diagnosed with stage four cancer. And while I tried to match his optimism those first weeks after the diagnosis I was, at least internally, shutting down. I was sheltering in, feeling the weight and enormity of the situation, and felt almost literally buried in darkness. Enter the tulip bulbs. That same fall (2016) my mom had given me tulip bulbs to plant. With everything happening I had forgotten about them and then it started turning too cold to plant. Then one unusually warm day in November I took a chance. I got them out and dug a little flower bed and planted them. I remember at that moment in time feeling angry and scared and exhausted. I pounded at the dirt, in an almost cathartic way, as I planted. I kept thinking about how I didn’t know if it was too late to plant the flowers, I didn’t know if they would ever break through the soil, and I kept thinking about how much could happen during the wait for spring. I was desperate to imagine them blooming, to have the hope and fresh signs of life, but scared and doubting at the same time. In the garden eight years ago, I knew that my planting was not just about the flowers. And as you might imagine, I was ecstatically joyful when they bloomed in the spring of 2017!! Because, it was about more than flowers, it was about recognizing that there is something about the power of renewal, even when things feel heavy or dark – even in the waiting.
Yesterday, when I stepped into the garden to investigate what appeared to be the mystery of the disappearing tulips, I realized a few things:
It wasn’t the rabbits or the deer. I wasn’t Minnesota winters or early springs. It was me. I’m the one that kept adding landscape fabric and mulch year after year, burying the bulbs that at one time nurtured me through a very challenging season in my life. If I take the metaphor far enough, I was burying my own hope, each spring, and then not recognizing the correlation to ever-shrinking number of flowers.
Presence has become increasingly more important to me, as a caregiver, as a parent, as a wife, and as a coach, yet, day-to-day life often keeps me from being fully present. If I had been a bit more in the moment each year, I might have recognized that my gardening efforts were starting to backfire on me. Sometimes life needs to take me by the collar and shake me, calling out “Wake up! Pay attention! Why are you missing the miracles and wonder?!?”
I was fighting so hard AGAINST something (weeds) that I was burying what I most wanted - color, renewal, HOPE. I wasn’t working to make the hope visible, I was fighting to keep out things I didn’t like. Boy, did I need that wake up call - on that theme - on so many levels.
And perhaps most significant for me was that In spite of my annual missteps of burying the bulbs more each year, they STILL wanted to survive! And in the photo I share, it is so clear that they fight to survive by GROWING TOWARD THE LIGHT.
The timing of my discovery yesterday must have been divinely orchestrated. Today, Andy, all these years into his medical journey, completed yet another round of treatment to keep the cancer at bay. A month of radiation and chemotherapy pills to target some really pesky spots came to a close as he rang the celebration bell and earned another “survivorship” pin. And I am certain that this man, this love of my life, is alive today in part because he refused to succumb to layers of darkness and weight that could potentially bury him each time he has a recurrence. He doesn’t fight against cancer, he fights for what he wants in his life. He continues to GROW TOWARD THE LIGHT.
So, If I’m going to learn from this experience here are my takeaways:
I want to be careful to notice ways that I might be sabotaging myself without realizing it. It can be slow and sneaky - just like more mulch each year.
Remember the power of presence. I want to remind myself to pay closer attention to the moments I am in, and to savor them, adding intentionality to my next steps.
I am inspired by the reminder to work toward what I WANT, rather than FIGHT AGAINST what I don’t.
I want to remind myself, and others, that renewal is available to us all, if we simply grow towards the light.
Although we can get a bit lulled by a predictable path, a journey for which we planned, changes will happen in our lives. They can be subtle and sneaky (layering on like garden mulch), or they can be big, bold, and even frightening interruptions to our lives (like a stage four cancer diagnosis). This is the reality of being human. Howe we navigate those changes, or big interruptions, is the PRACTICE of being human.
One thing that Andy and I are starting to commit to doing together is, in partnership with Lynn O’Brien, taking the lessons we’ve learned and stories we’ve discovered over the last eight years and trying to use them to not only help us grow toward the light, but to invite others to do the same. We are stepping up our efforts to invite others into our community, to explore stories of resilience, struggle, hope, and pure JOY (a-hem, the first sign of tulip bulbs 🌷). Our next offering a full-day retreat on Saturday April 26th at Mt. Olivet Conference and Retreat Center in Farmington, MN. If you are looking for fresh ways to explore renewal in your own life, we invite you to join us. Or consider sharing with someone who might benefit from the lens of renewal. You can learn more about the offering here:
https://thepracticeofbeinghuman.com/retreat/
Now, what else do I want to plant this season?
“Every gardener knows that under the cloak of winter lies a miracle ... a seed waiting to sprout, a bulb opening to the light, a bud straining to unfurl. And the anticipation nurtures our dream.”
~ Barbara Winkler
What great reminders, Michael. I love the metaphor.