She flutters in the wind.
She basks in the sunshine.
Her roots sink deep into the soft earth beneath.
She sways happily in the breeze with her other petaled companions.
And then she sees Him.
The Gardener.
He comes with a spade in his hand.
He plunges it deep into the soil around her.
He pulls her up.
He pulls her out.
And even as he lifts her up and out, she knows.
She knows she is leaving.
He does not take all.
There will forever be roots in that parcel of earth.
Or maybe, that piece of earth will always be a part of her.
He carries her away.
Far, far away.
He gently places her in cavity of earth, hewed, she realizes, just for her.
He smooths new dirt around her roots.
He pats it down.
He presses her in.
Then he leans down and whispers: “Bloom, my little flower, where I’ve planted you.”
And she weeps because the sun is gone.
The wind is gone.
The rain is gone.
Her fellow foliage is gone.
Familiarity is gone.
It’s all…
gone.
“Bloom… where I’ve planted you?”
How?
* * *
Umm.
I don’t really know “how.” :)
I’m not even going to pretend that I’ve got that one all figured out.
I think everyone’s journey is different. There is no set way to navigate transition. I can’t provide anyone with a formula. But I’d love to tell you about what “The Gardener” has taught me.
******
Leaving is hard.
Uprootment is hard.
And those are gross understatements.
It takes time.
It takes courage.
It takes awkward moments.
It takes those indescribable moments of…
What is it?
Limbo?
You know, those moments when you’re just sort of… there. But you’re not all there.
Yeah. It takes a LOT of those.
------
But ultimately…?
You can bloom...
In Cameroon, we had a lovely plant whose vines arched and curled themselves around a portion of our fence.
In the day, in the sunshine, the plant’s blossoms stayed shut.
But at night…?
When the sun was gone…?
It bloomed.
It bloomed in the darkness.
And its fragrance rode upon the night’s breezes and drifted into our home.
It took the obscurity of the sun to release the blossoms.
You can bloom. Even in the darkness.
------
I visited an old concentration camp once. I will never forget the weight of tragedy impressed upon me that day. But one image, especially, will never leave my mind.
It was a cluster of little purple flowers butting out of gravely earth.
They were blooming beneath barbed wire.
And you can bloom too.
You can bloom beneath barbed wire.
------
And I know it may seem unfair. So, so unfair of the Gardener to pluck you up, and out, and away. To thrust you into new foreign soil.
But I’ve come to realize, and maybe you have too, how much the Gardener does care.
Cuz when I look back at that little parcel of earth that was and is so dear, I realize that I’m not supposed to be there.
And when I look around me now, I see the beauty here.
And who knows? Maybe He’ll see fit to put me back there someday...
But for now, …
I marvel at, how, as a third culture kid, I get to plunge my roots into so many places and cultures.
And I marvel at the diverse myriad of people I get to sprout in the dirt with.
And even though, that distant little crevice of where I once was, will forever and always be with me, and I will always have remnant roots buried in that soil, I am reminded that it’s the Gardener’s job tend the Garden, and not mine.
I am just supposed to bloom where I’m planted.
******
