How to Grow. . .

It’s amazing that anyone would let me be a mother.  Judging from my complete and utter lack of skill in nurturing a plant, one would assume that any living thing in my care would wither and die.  I cannot keep anything green alive.  I want to.  I mean well.  But my good intentions are belied by the inevitable browning of leaves and wilting of flowers that hang like candy canes and mock me.  Truth is, I don’t know the first thing about growing a garden.  My eyes glaze over and I’m pretty sure I go at least partially deaf when the helpful nursery expert starts talking about what needs sun, when to prune (the definition of which, I will freely admit, I really do not know), and how to fertilize.   

“What grows best in ignorance?” I think to myself.  “You know, something that prefers complete inattention and ineptitude?” Funny I’ve never found a plant with those words written on a cute little tag dangling from its gorgeous blossoming buds. 

Which is why the shrubs in my back yard must grow in spite of my best efforts to murder them.  It’s also why things get a little out of control with ugly. 

So, just like the trooper that she was, Mom would come to see us in Oregon, dig out a pair of gardening shears from wherever she left them the last time she visited, and head to my back yard.  We would stand sipping lemonade in our air-conditioned kitchen and watch her slave away.  It was tradition.  And it was the only thing standing between me and a weed jungle. 

On one such occasion, she asked whether I wanted a particular bundle of stems and leaves to be a tree or a bush.  I was stunned that I even had such an option.  I thought decisions such as these were made long before someone like me ever got involved.  Further, it was just a small shrub.  And though I liked the idea of a tree standing where this little bush was, that simply seemed impossible given its stunted height and stubby shape.  But Mom and her shears went to work.  Together, they cut away the numerous lower stems and branches that hid what was eventually revealed to be something that looked very much like a trunk.  It was small, and slight, and certainly not too sturdy, but by the time she was finished, that hedge resembled a tree.

That was nearly 6 years ago.  Today, that little bush is a towering Cherry Tree that shades our backyard and provides hours of climbing enjoyment for Liz’s granddaughters.  See evidence here:

 Kelby Defies Gravity in Our Tree

And when I look at it, I am reminded of

 Mom’s life-lesson #11

Sometimes a little loss is required 

for a lot of growth.

Like that tree, we must sometimes lose part of ourselves in order to grow into what we were meant to be.  A little pain makes us stronger, sturdier, more impressive versions of ourselves.  A moment of adversity, can shape for us a future of beauty. 

I can’t help but think of my mom when I look at that tree.  I think of the many ways she shaded me throughout my life. I think of how she shaped me into who I am now and who I still hope I can grow to be. I think of her example of strength, and endurance and heart.  And I think about how I miss her. Still.

And I remember the end of her life, punctuated by pain and suffering but surrounded by love. And I know those fleeting moments were necessary for her growth, for her future of eternal beauty. And how they were necessary for mine.  And I’m grateful for my knowledge of those things.

So on this Mother’s Day, I will stand at the base of my tree.  The tree she shaped.  The tree that stands tall in spite of my inattention to it.  And I will think of her.  And know that I still have some growing to do.