The Unexpected Bloom
Some time ago, a student of mine who was coming to class regularly shared some deep trauma she had experienced in her recent life and asked me to work with her one-on-one to help her develop her mindfulness practice.
When I arrived at her home a week later for our first meeting together, she led me into her comfortable sitting area that had a beautiful view of her lush backyard. I couldn’t help but peak through the window every so often, hoping to get a glimpse of her tropical plants; the lovely pinks, purples and yellows peppering her yard as they gently swayed in the breeze. She must have noticed my eyes drifting out there every so often, because after our session, she led me outside to get a closer look.
We walked together around the perimeter of her yard and then to the back corner where she pointed out the most beautiful delicate flowers. They were yellow with a tint of the softest pink and white. She pulled a flower off the plant and offered it to me to smell. The scent was just as the flower appeared; delicate and exquisite. She told me the name, Plumeria. They are the flowers used to make Leis in Hawaii. She spent the next couple of minutes explaining how they grow and then she broke off a barren piece of stalk and handed it to me along with that single flower. I looked at this barren stalk with no roots or leaves and doubted it would survive, let alone ever produce those perfect flowers. Nevertheless, I took my stalk home and explained the instructions she gave me to my husband. He planted it in a pot, we placed it on a table in the corner of our patio, and we waited.
Over the next couple of months she and I met several more times and we made quite a bit of progress. She was able to begin to touch some of the intense grief she was holding and dig underneath it to see what was there; guilt, fear, self doubt and sadness.
Each week when I returned home from our session, I took a look at the stalk and to my surprise after about a month, I started to see some little shoots of green. My student was beginning to sprout as well; our time together was serving her and she was beginning to find forgiveness for others in her life, and for herself.
By the time our work together ended and she was ready to continue her practice on her own, it was clear that this barren stalk had turned into a full plant; complete with leaves and roots. It even got big enough that my husband (he is the gardener in the family) split the plant into two separate pots. Truly, I was thrilled to see the growth that had come from what looked like a dead branch. This felt symbolic and representative of rebirth.
In the months after our work commenced, my student and I had check-ins every so often so she could keep me updated on how she was doing. She had experienced a couple of setbacks but for the most part she was maintaining her practice and feeling much better. My Plumeria plants, on the other hand, were having a major crisis. Out of nowhere, both of them lost most of their leaves and the leaves that remained were turning brown. My husband researched and sprayed them with a specific fertilizer and again we waited.
Around the start of this year she and I touched base again. She shared that she had had some medical issues that were resolving and a new grandchild on the way. Life was feeling very positive. After we chatted I realized that with the holidays and travel, I hadn’t taken the time to look closely at my plants so I went to take a peek at them. I was surprised at how they had both sprouted new leaves and looked healthy. They had overcome adversity and were growing again. It was at this moment I realized my growth too. I had truly surrendered my attachment to the elusive blooms. The healthy plants felt like enough. I was not expecting anything more.
About a month after this, my husband (again the doting caregiver of all of our plants), called me outside to show me some other exciting items in our yard; a baby pineapple growing from a pineapple plant he cultivated from a Publix pineapple and the flowering orchids growing out of a palm tree. Then he nonchalantly asked if I had noticed the buds forming on my Plumeria plants. I took a glance over and saw that yes in fact, buds were forming. I was happy and hopeful but reminded myself of the practice of non-attachment about the possibility of blooms. The leaves were enough.
Not too long after the buds appeared, they bloomed, and the flowers were just as exquisite as I remembered. The delicate dusting of pink and yellow and the lovely fragrance that is hard to describe other than the smell of a tropical vacation. While I do not consider myself a plant person, these plants have truly been my teachers. The powers of resilience and patience, of nurturing and non-attachment, were all here in this journey of the Plumeria stalk. Being witness to living things that, with nurturing and patience, overcame adversity, sprouted new leaves and roots and then bloomed, is a reminder that this opportunity exists for each of us.
I recently took this picture of the blooms and sent it to my student with the text:
“Look, it’s blooming! I hope all is well.” and she wrote back; “Yayyyyyyy! She’s gorgeous too! I’m doing SO WELL. It’s been a wonderful year. I spend a lot more time on my thoughts and actions for my future instead of my past.”
Talk about blooming…. There is no more beautiful bloom than that.