Before the Bloom

Today, my sunflowers are close to exploding open.

The yellow is starting to poke through the green.

The shape to come is taking form.

At this age and stage of my life, it is not only the bloom I admire.

I love the seed and the dirt it is planted in.

I love the rain and even the dry days when I have to water the plants.

I don’t complain as much about tending to and chores, because most of my life is tending to and chores, and likely will be.

Being able to tend to chores is a luxury I don’t take for granted.

All the work we do matters.

All the growth, effort, tenacity, and will have merit – even before the end, the pay-off, the rewards or the reveal.

All of it.

Dearest Bloom: It’s not all about you.  You are a jewel I notice shine.

But the rise and the decline, those also don’t miss my eye.

Those too, are part of you.

Every day, several times a day, I have watched the stalks.

I’ve chalked the brick behind you to see where you just were. Each Thursday, I take a note of the journey, the climb, the distance from then to now.

All becoming.

So much can happen in a week.

This is the first season of sunflowers in this house which finally feels like home.

These are the first flowers after move and transition, when who and what brought me here changed.

This dirt accepted my tears and help me carried grief.

This year, I planted seeds without burying sadness.

This year not all I planted grew.

The ones out back, in fact, didn’t take at all.

Even though I planted them on the same day and with the same nutrient-rich compost.

I planted them with the same hands, tools, and brand of seeds.

I planted them with the same full heart and good intentions.

My daughter had requested sunflowers growing out back by the fence, not just out front by the brick fireplace.

I obliged, was eager also for the contrast out back.

But nature didn’t cooperate, had other plans.

For some reason, it was not the place for sunflower growth.

Was it not enough sun?
Did animals eat the seeds?
Was there something in the dirt that was inhospitable?
Was there something I missed?
Did I not water them enough?

I don’t know.

I may never know.

I don’t even know if I’ll try again next year back there or if I’ll move on to a different breed or variety of flower or let the dirt alone.

What I do know right now is how tracking the changes, watering the seeds, and measuring the stages of growth, of the seeds that did take,  has filled my heart week over week over week.

It’s possible to carry joy and grief in the same heart at the same time without betraying either.

I’ve noticed leaves and seen the beauty in the changing shades of green.

I’ve watched the skinny stalks grow taller than me.

I stopped to take a picture of the seed that got carried up and out on a leaf.

My trauma-sensitive meditation teacher has helped me meditate with eyes open, by counting breath or fixing a soft gaze on an object.

She has helped me learn to center, still, inhabit, and be. And to notice what happens when that so of often “fails” to happen.

She gave me a piece of reminder paper that says, “Event” and suggested I place my feet on it to remind me that this, wherever this is, is the event.

Always.

Not what just was or what comes next.

Not the end of the day, weekend, next holiday.

Not the last page or the next chapter.

Just this moment, wherever my feet are right now. Today.

My toes can type out in present tense.

My soles as the guide.

The word grounded takes on a whole new meaning.

Grounded is not punishment.

Grounded, as a point of focus.

Right here.

Present tense.

Real-time.

A scent or sound or swirling sentiment.

This moment where one ant makes the climb on a stalk that never existed before.

This moment where the rain still collects by the stem.

This moment where my daughter and I stop, on the way to dance, to count the brick over brick breakthroughs.

This moment when we wonder how big the flowers will be and for once uncertainty is pleasant and mysterious – not a threat.

When we glory in the sunflowers uncurling, opening the tight fist, and surrendering to the full sun, the open sky, the elements, and even the insects and birds – it won’t be without missing any bit of this.

How I wish, when in my deepest and hardest healing I had the same regard, the same RESPECT, (RIP Aretha Franklin), for every single stage of becoming.

The progress can seem invisible.

Growth occurs even when not seen, noticed, or celebrated.

Growth matters and change matters can be meaningful and admirable, even when it’s not long lasting and permanent.

Sometimes life-changing and sweet because it’s seasonal, temporary.

Because it can’t ever be repeatable in quite the same way.

When there’s paleness, yellowing, bending back towards dirt, that too we will see.

And the so-called unbecoming of returning to the dirt, transitioning to compost, and letting this season go.

That matters as well and has a magic too.

There’s so much to notice, witness, and honor.

And there is loss, grief, and gaps that can’t be filled.

There is so much we can

and can’t recover.

Still, this shiny green leaf has been filling me up.

It won’t last forever.

How central, vital, and joyful it has been no matter what follows or is yet to come.

The seeds from the school fundraiser, a mother’s day gift to myself, and a way to contribute to a cause while nesting in at home were a gift that kept giving.

My baby girl will drive soon, turn 16, and take the wheel in far more of her own life decisions.

I’m struck by all that happens before the bloom.

As we bloom.

Struck by how often and how much I tend to miss.

Not this year.

Not this time.

Not now.

The event. The event. The event.

Even still, right now, writing this as my fingers move on the keyboard and my toes wiggle into the cool wood.