Life Lessons from Plants — Natalie Said So

I wrote this piece over a month ago, and I debated publishing it. But when I thought I’d accidentally deleted it and was anxiously tracking it down, something told me it was obviously meaningful enough to me in the moment to write it. And if there’s one person out there who needs to see it, then it’s worth posting. If that’s you, hang in there 🌱

I’m an only child, and if you read that and your immediate response was “yeah, I could tell,” I’m going to pretend not to be offended.

When I’m in a funk, I tend to really dwell on it. Acceptance has never been my strong suit. And truth be told, I only have a friend or two that can actually snap me out of it when I’m having a hard time. It takes a specific blend of humor and empathy and none of that toxic positivity garbage that’s so pervasive in our culture (I know you mean well, but please stop).

I was on the phone with a friend, lamenting some meaningless metric on this very website, when she apologized and said she couldn’t relate because she didn’t know what it was like to want other people to listen to something she had to say. Her comment stuck with me and got me thinking…

Do I want to write because I have something to say? Or do I say something because I want people to pay attention to me?

Let the existential crisis begin!

I’m only kidding. Kind of. But really, when you feel like it’s your life’s purpose to write and create, but you feel called to be silent…what do you do?

This year has not gone as planned for about a dozen reasons and one very large one. So many times I had to fight off the compulsion to write, to create, to be consistent in showing up here. I felt like I was failing with every post I didn’t publish. I had idea after idea.

“7 Ways to Ease the Transition Back to the Workplace ”

“A Review of Every Show I Watched While Recovering from the Ski Trip from Hell”

“How to Deal with that One Weird Room in Your House”

“Should we Forgive Chrissy Teigen?”

Really asking life’s heavy hitting questions over here 😂. PS Let me know if you’re interested in any of these.

I wanted to write, but every time I tried, something inside of me gave a resounding, “No.” It was like an invisible hand was being held over my mouth. Or my hands so I couldn’t type. I don’t know, I’m losing track of this metaphor. Truthfully, and I admit this sounds cheesy — when I tried to write, it felt like there was a hand over my heart saying, “Not now. Rest.”

And I suck at rest.

I knew that, but after the past 6 months, I like, REALLY knew that. There was also a part of me that was scared of what might happen if I tried. Would I unintentionally be too negative? What if the content wasn’t relatable enough because I was consumed by the aftermath of a debilitating accident? And furthermore, who really cares what a mid 30s white girl from Tennessee who is unemployed, perpetually covered in dog hair, and shoves crystals in her bra has to say about anything?

No really, I ask myself that last question all the time, but I try to carry on regardless of whatever internal response might arise in the moment.

The inner turmoil was strong. I fought with myself tooth and nail over how to show up here, if I should talk about my accident, whether I should even show up at all. And if I didn’t show up, was this just one more questionable gap in my resume? Or worse…would no one care?

I wouldn’t give myself a break, and looking back it was really unfair to place these sort of expectations on myself as I was dealing with something completely unfamiliar (basically shattering my lower half) while already dealing with something completely unfamiliar (a pandemic).

But that’s just what I do *finger guns*

I felt paralyzed by indecision and also, I was just kind of a blob for several months. It was…not great.

The majority of the time, I feel like I need all of the facts before I take any action (that’s my anxiety talking). Sometimes I convince myself that I will be ready or have inspiration or motivation when a new month or a new year arrives. But I had so many of those same hopes at the beginning of this year and last year, and look what happened. Having the courage to hope and want for more is a scary thing sometimes, especially when you’re in the deep middle of it all.

I have a plant in my backyard called a Gayfeather, and — as if the name didn’t already give this away — it is magnificent. I bought it last summer, and it is one of my favorites. It looks like a plant that only Dr. Seuss could dream up. It has arms that grow long and sprawl out and the most gorgeous fuchsia plumes adorn the ends. It’s absolutely incredible. They are a real fan favorite of the bees and butterflies, so if those aren’t your thing, steer clear. But it’s a wondrous plant, and having it on my back patio helps me like summer a tiny little bit (and if you know my hatred of summer, you know this is really saying something!).

Last fall, when my Gayfeather was finished blooming, I asked the guy that always helps me at the nursery what I should do with it. He suggested I cut the stalks off and ignore it. “Let it go dormant,” he said, promising it would grow back next summer. I didn’t really believe him, and I don’t know where my trust issues stem from (pun unintended). I think — in this scenario — it’s mostly plant-related because I tend to kill everything in my path. But luckily, with the assistance of my husband, the plants on the property are thriving!

This year, after a pretty intense winter, my Gayfeather is back and has stretched its long arms out in every direction. Last year there were four stalks, and as of my count last weekend, it currently has 21! It’s amazing what a little rest can do. I’ve waited with much anticipation for when it would finally bloom, and today is the day. June 15th. Not the beginning of the month or the beginning of a year, but right smack in the middle of everything.

Life.

Color.

Beauty.