I used to have a notoriously black thumb. Every plant I bought or was gifted, I managed to kill – somehow even succulents, the needless, resilient warriors of the plant kingdom.
Early in the pandemic, I decided it was time to turn things around.
I started by hanging out regularly at my local nursery. In the yawning stretches of unstructured pandemic time, at the nursery I could walk around in the fresh air and enjoy plants beautifully curated by someone other than me, and be reminded that order still existed in that one sweet pocket of the world.
I hoped some sort of plant wisdom would transfer itself to me by sheer proximity.
Eventually I mustered up my courage and bought a plant that looked easy enough to maintain. I threw myself wholeheartedly into its care, experimenting with different light and water levels. (And yes, talking to it.)
It didn’t die the first month. I was baffled.
It also didn’t die the second month.
Or the seventh. Or the thirtieth.
I’m as deeply invested in this thing as I am shocked that it continues to live.
I share all that context to explain why, once per year, when about half of its leaves wither and turn from vibrant green to sickly yellow to crispy brown – I panic.
I rack my brain for what could’ve possibly gone wrong, and feel a wave of guilt over my (still, apparently) bad plant parenting.
After riding all the stages of grief, right about the time I enter the acceptance phase, something miraculous happens:
It blooms.
Each time, I am relieved and surprised and delighted to remember that the withering and die-off don’t always spell doom.
It’s a normal and necessary part of the cycle of life. The old must be cleared out in order to make room for the new.
How many times has this process played out in your life?
Plant metaphors aside, what I’ve learned to be true in my own life is that destruction precedes new growth. (And it’s never a singular, one-and-done event.)
For those of us who deeply yearn to get to the other side where that new growth lives, developing the ability to ride out the fear and uncertainty during the destruction phase is a must.
Fortunately, it’s a skill set that can be acquired at any age. And the payoff is getting to witness the unfolding of the most beautiful blooming of your own life.
That’s why tolerating uncertainty is one of the key muscles I help my coaching clients build. If you can stay grounded, nourished, and clear during periods of fear and tumult, just about anything becomes possible.
I love my plant for many reasons, but especially because each year it proudly bursts forth with a bright and fragrant reminder: that our human cycles and challenges aren’t actually so novel after all, and that with enough care and patience the thing we most hope for might just appear to delight us.