Knowledge or trust. Fact or faith. Established patterns or unfounded sensations.
I know that if I plant a bulb, water it, offer it to the sunshine, it will likely sprout.
But I don’t always have the faith that it will happen. That something will grow out of a seed, or that something will grow out of a loss.
At a hospice memorial service several weeks ago during which I honored my recently-passed loved ones, I was given a small bag of orchid bulbs. The next day I planted them fairly unceremoniously in some throw-away pots.
This season I have watched my pansies falter, apparently go into stasis, and then
suddenly display their thrive-ability by growing four times their original size and
blooming in prismatic colors by the hundreds.
Last week I pruned off the dead leaves and spent flowers of a condolence plant I was
given a year ago when my dog died; this morning I noticed two fresh new flowers, a
couple of buds, and some leaf starts.
Yesterday I did my typical gesture of surprise and gasped when I saw something odd, something colorful, something totally and completely unexpected as I quickly passed by the old throw-away pots.
A miracle! (I said that aloud to myself.)
There in those pots were two green shoots – each an inch tall - bolting up out of the soil that I had uncarefully poured atop the orchid bulbs. Though I had offered them sips of water every few days for the past two weeks, I had also concealed them at the edge of the deck so they wouldn’t detract from the bountiful glory of the other thousand flowers gracing the space.
A little while ago I went out to check on some laundry I’d hung to dry in the beautiful
spring air and warm sunshine, and I looked down at the orchid pots. Those sprouts have
more than doubled their size in the past twenty-four hours.
Faith. Faith. I had lacked it. I had written off the orchid bulbs before giving them the respect of my belief in them. In their divinity. In the potential miracle of their being.
Knowing they might grow if I threw them in soil with a dash of water now and then wasn’t enough.
It was enough for them to grow.
But it wasn’t enough for my heart.
My heart might’ve felt the grace of faith, trusting in something I cannot see: growth obscured deep in the soil, the power of sunshine and water, the hope of new life after death.
I even looked at those pots a few times last week and thought, Hm. Maybe there’s something growing in the soil that hasn’t yet broken the surface. Then, Nah, probably not viable bulbs. I had even considered digging them up to see if the bulb had split open - as they do - before sending out their shoot. I was fully prepared to dump the whole sordid experiment into the compost pile if a few more weeks went by with no apparent growth.
Because I lacked faith.
Sometimes I think we just need a reminder that it’s okay – even necessary – to have a bit of heart-belief in goodness, in growth, in love, in birth, in the wonderful and frivolous and steadfast way that nature works.
All blog images created & photographed by Jennifer J. Wilhoit unless otherwise noted. Please circulate images with photo credit: "©2019 JenniferJWilhoit/TEALarbor stories. AllRightsReserved."
