It Just Blooms
“Oh god. Another one… dead.” I don’t mean to do it. I swear I don’t. I try my best. That’s all we can do, right? Maybe I don’t know enough, maybe I’m afraid to know too much. I don’t mean for them to die. But they do.
Flowers, succulents, trees, herbs... Whether from the seed or already in a pot started for me by a greener thumb, my plants die. My mother and her mother before her certainly had a green thumb, considering all my childhood homes had an abundance of growing trees, shrubs, flowers, and fruit-bearing plants. Their green thumb was not passed down to me, but their absolute adoration of nature, gardens, and flowers was.
During a visit to my green-thumbed mother, I watched her tend to the garden that she and my father have created in our backyard. I practically grew up with these plants. As a child, I remember watching them be lowered into the soil, and now many of them are as tall as, if not taller than, me. Some are bushes that have flourished into a voluminous shrub, filling empty spaces behind a retaining wall, and offering solace to birds and sometimes local felines. There’s an actual green grassy lawn my dad has maintained which, here in California, is a miracle. My parents have also grown full-sized trees - palm, pear, pineapple-guava, orange, and a soon-to-be avocado. There are bundles of succulents grown from single stems, floral jasmine bushes that I smell each spring, and a bowl of dirt sitting on a table just waiting to welcome another floral friend to our yard. Together, my parents have grown a beautiful garden. I’m so in awe of this that sometimes it’s easy to forget - they also grew me.
I notice a few things while my parents go around their garden, keeping these plants alive in ways I never could:
There is no watering can. My mom uses a full-on, extending, no-limits-until-she-says hose. She’s wrestling to make it extend with every step she takes, but she’s unafraid yet in control of this endless water source.
We’re alone. There is no one telling her how much to water. No one is telling my dad when or what pattern to mow. They are not asking what anyone else thinks. My mom approaches each plant, makes an assessment, mindfully waters it, then moves on to the next one and does it again.
Each plant is cared for differently. Therefore each plant thrives differently. Maybe at different speeds, in various ways. They might all look different, but they’re blooming.
As I sat there, clearly unhelpful when it comes to tending the garden, it dawned on me. There are endless plants, flowers, and trees with a variety of needs, appearances, and roles in its environment. One will have an adaptation to help it survive that will be vastly different than another, but that doesn’t make any plant’s way wrong. Relatably, we as people have different needs, personalities, and coping mechanisms that allow us to make our way through our world, but there is no one right way to do so. It is our responsibility as individuals to take a look within, with water hose in hand, get to know ourselves, and practice the discernment of what our roots, buds, and blooms may need. I may not be great at this with plants, but I figure I might have more luck applying this practice in the garden that is my life.
Though I’m still exploring my love language toward gardens and flowers (because acts of service such as keeping them alive clearly aren’t it), I do genuinely love them. How could I not? Flowers are out there, bravely settling their roots into the ground, making their way through the dirt, trying to find the sunlight and praying they’ll get to bloom. Relatable.
So, I tried to take it back to basics- water. Plants need water. Relatable. I’ve tried to put them on watering schedules - every day, every other day, once a week, etc. It’s the one thing I know they need that I have complete control over. I don’t know how much sun will come out each day, what chemicals might be in their potting soil, or what energies or vibes enter their atmosphere. But I am the mighty hand that provides the water.
As I tip the watering can over any plant I’m optimistically attempting to resuscitate, with full knowledge it’s in desperate need of water, I notice something odd: hesitation, fear, and the urge to pull back the watering can. How is that possible? I know the plant needs water. I can practically feel it wishing it had hands so it could get the job done itself. But still, I hesitate. After all this, it turns out it isn’t a lack of knowledge, skill, or a green thumb. It’s because I’m afraid that my clumsy hands will drown it. I don’t want to give it too much. So much for the mighty hand.
I stand there with my watering can, putting my arm out, then pulling it back in. Out and back. Out and back. Like a horrid hokey-pokey. How will these flowers ever get enough water if I’m so afraid of giving them too much?
“For the love of God, fill the can, pour the water, and accept that it’s enough.”
“Oh my God, but what if it’s not enough?”
“They’ll die.”
There I am, watering can still in hand, staring at my plant, and couldn’t help but feel an air of solidarity. They said it helps to talk to your plants. I said, “Damn girl. Relatable.”
I am enough. I am enough. I am enough…
This is a mantra that I have heard, said, and continue to perpetuate with enormous enthusiasm. They say you need to tend to your garden before caring for that of others. But as much as I try to consciously fill my can with these words, I feel my subconscious simultaneously trying to put a lid on it. The more I fill my watering can, the more there seems to be a voice inside trying to ensure it doesn’t overflow.
“Oooh, careful now. Don’t give it too much. If you overdo it, it could drown. It could overflow. It could make a mess out of everything.
You’ll have made a mess out of everything.”
So here I am. At the faucet, trying to fill my cup and watering can so that I can tend to that inner garden. Though now, not only am I desperately trying to fill, but for some reason, I’m also living in fear of it overflowing, spilling, and making an entire mess of my life. So. I need to fill my watering can just enough, but dare not fill it too much. What in the hell is this watering can struggle? I can’t even make it past the filling faucet. How can I ever fill my cup if I’m constantly paying heed to an imaginary limit? How will I ever fill my cup if I’m so afraid of where the limit line might be? How will I ever be if I’m so concerned with making a mess of things? This is when I realized. As much as I tell myself I’m enough, I’m just as afraid of being “too much” of something.
I try to be nice, then get called “Too Nice”.
I breathe deeply in an attempt to avoid being impatient, I’m called “Too Patient.”
I listen intently, waiting for my turn to speak. I’m “Too Shy”.
Take a chance and tell my side, “Too Loud.”
Handle my needs on my own, “Too Quiet.”
Speak up for myself, “Too Needy.”
Try to plan ahead. “Too Anxious.”
Optimistic. “Too Unrealtistic.”
Realistic. “Too Serious.”
Empathetic. “Too Sensitive”
Child-at-heart. “Too Innocent.”
Open-hearted. “Too Soft”
The watering can goes out and back, out and back.
The list goes on and on and on.
It’s “too long.”
They say sunflowers turn to face the sun. Perhaps it was time I tried to adjust myself and face a different kind of light. This Watering Can Perspective has, aside from giving me emotional and mental whiplash, brought me to a few realizations. Yes, we have mantras, affirmations, and all kinds of books telling us how we can change ourselves to become “enough.” But what about the other edge of the same sword? What about us seedlings who are afraid that we have something within us that is somehow “too much”, causing us to make ourselves small, bury our heads in the dirt, afraid to show our true faces?
Both are entirely valid. Both keep people from blooming to their best potential. Both need tending to. But like my green-thumbed mama worriedly says when she’s out of town, leaving me to babysit the florals, “Don’t forget to water the plants where they need it!”
What if our inner gardens are not necessarily “lacking” or “not enough”? What if we aren’t being “too much”? What if we just haven’t taken the time to read the care instructions?
When I imagine my roots, I see that they’ve been reaching down and stretching out for years, trying to find their footing. I’ve been through the turn of many seasons, making my way through the dirt, trying to get to the warm sunlight. At times, I would find sunshine. Sometimes, I’ve shriveled up and wilted before even breaking ground. Others, I’m afraid to overwater out of fear of drowning myself or those around me. Flower buds form on my stem here and there, but it can be so hard to get them to bloom. The watering can goes out and back, out and back. I look at the other beautiful blooms around me and wonder why I can’t be like them.
One of the first ordained Buddhists, a young woman called Zenshin, once said,
“A flower does not think of competing with the flower next to it. It just blooms.”
A rosebush is not “too thorny” and a sunflower is not “too tall”. If their roots were in our shoes, would they think they were “too” anything? I think we would agree that they are beautiful as they bloom into what they are. Why can’t we have the same mentality for ourselves?
This frustrating dance has me asking the question: Are some of us really “Too blah blah blah?” Or is it something else being misinterpreted, misunderstood, or miswatered? Is there a way for each of us to bloom just as much as a flower, or are we just “Too” Kinds of People? In which instances might we actually be “too” something, and when might it just be our truest selves in bloom? Perhaps by tending to our garden and fostering the best parts of it, not only will we see that we are more than enough, but we’ll bloom more than we ever thought possible. Perhaps by watering our roots where they are planted, they will stem from the soil, budding with potential and our truest bloom.
Here’s to our Too’s. Here’s to our Blooms.
And to the journey we’ll take together, discerning between them.
