Root to Rise and Rainy Days
Today is a cold damp gray Spring day. It’s nearing the end of April. I don’t mind when the sun takes a break and sleeps through the day like my cat tends to do on days like today. It’s his unapologetic, instinctual pause, cleaning paws and body, finding rest on my husband’s long-sleeved super soft T-shirt, the scent of a familiar person settled into the weave of this favorite everyday shirt. We place the shirt strategically at the end of the bed, and he chooses this destination to cozy in and take rest. Seeing him in deep sleep somehow relaxes me. I guess we humans make the same instinctual choices as we find our cozy spots to watch tv or read, our favorite blanket to nestle into, or our favorite mug or glass to sip a soothing drink.
Rainy days coax me to find my places and things of comfort, to move a little slower, to give myself more breathing space between the “to-do’s.” Rainy days are like a permission slip to daydream and pay more attention to moments that easily get lost in the daily shuffle. Today I’m noticing how my breathing causes a rising of my chest and the expanse of my back as I inhale. The exhale is just as interesting…the easy release of air causes a cascading of softening from my jaws, to my neck, to my shoulders, and back.
My eyes become more zoomed into things I normally brush by, like how the Spring grass has thickened and took on an energetic shade of green. It feels as if I can breathe this rich green into my body as I stay with this sweet moment. In this moment, I think I’m in love with rainy days.
My cat woke up as I walked into the bedroom. He slowly stretched out one of his front legs in my direction and yawned. He begins cleaning his soft fur coat, a brief intermission of wakefulness between acts of pure deep sleep. Wakefulness and Sleep, Rain and Sun, Inhaling and Exhaling. These opposites create bookends for all the graduations in between, the line of vertebrae making up the spine, the main branch connecting the roots of a plant to it’s highest point and it’s fruits.
This time of year, I’m taking on the delightful challenge of doula-ing garden plants. To be a plant doula, offering my support, training, and devotion to new plant life, is one of my greatest joys. The fun starts in January, ordering seeds and planning for this year’s family. When the box arrives in the mail, I carefully unpack and arrange the seed packs in a beautiful design on my dining room table. I light a candle and place some special relics from my alter around the packs. It’s a welcoming celebration, an honoring of what’s to come.
I’m noticing this theme of opposites arising from the ”birth” of a shoot, how the seed coats swell with water after they are planted in a moist growing medium. They swell so much that the coat splits open, revealing a root and a shoot. The root instinctively moves downward and anchors itself into the soil, creating stability and sourcing water and nutrients for the plant. The shoot moves upwards, breaking through soil and out into the light. Opposing directions create the circumstances for solid foundation and growth. I smile as I’m writing this, thinking about my sweet husband patiently teaching me golf. He always says matter of factly, “down is up.” In golf speak, this refers to the technique in a downward swing, and the intention is to make contact with the bottom portion of the golf ball which sends it sailing in an upward rainbow-style arc. All these opposites in life support the continuum, tying together the moment, the action, the experience. It occurs everywhere, and today I see this lesson through my young plant teachers.
As a plant doula, I know the importance of creating an environment for the plants to thrive. I care for them and then step aside and allow nature to do the rest. During this Springtime growth period, the seedlings are so vulnerable and tender, and yet given the right amount of light, water, nutrients and “strength training” (exposing them to wind and sun little by little to prepare them for an outdoor life), they learn how to be resilient to all the elements and even some critters that challenge their survival. Brene Brown, researcher, lecturer, and author (and one of my heroes!) defines human vulnerability as having three main aspects; uncertainty, risk, and emotional exposure. She says “vulnerability is not winning or losing. It's having the courage to show up when you can’t control the outcome” and it’s the “birthplace of innovation, creativity, and change.” When I heard this definition of vulnerability, it rocked my whole world. My old story/belief around vulnerability insisted that being vulnerable meant I wasn’t ready, I wasn’t strong or capable or connected enough, or life was simply too dangerous and scary to take risks.
I let Brene’s words sink into my skin in the same way I inhaled the view of energizing green grass. And I’m taking a lesson from my plant families as I see the tender shoots breaking through the soil. They courageously rise up to meet the elements, not stopping when the wind and harsh weather come through. Their roots and strong main stems provide the foundation for them to grow upward and become their full expression. My wish and prayer for all of us humans is to choose to ignite our courage in the midst of our vulnerability and show up today. May we all feel our feet firmly planted, our bodies buzzing with life, and our spirits ready to rise up to meet and engage with the possibilities of life today.
