Garden of the Soul
I stopped in amazement when I spotted a white blossom on the dogwood tree beside my patio. The tree is one of two that I received as seedlings five years ago. The seedlings grew slowly as I have nurtured them along, transferring them into pots of escalating size. They were nearly three years old before I put them into the ground. Here for the first time was a blossom!
I rushed over to the second tree, but it had no blossoms as
yet, likely because it doesn’t get the morning sun the way the other one
does. The two trees are like
siblings; the one by the back fence is growing tall and slender, while the one
by the patio is short and full.
I watched that first blossom like a hawk; it represented pure potentiality and brought
me unimaginable joy. I examined the tree’s branches and thought there were
signs of other blossoms to come. But alas, the would-be blossoms became leaves
instead. Then along came a heavy rainstorm and washed away my delicate white
flower. But not to despair, a couple of days later, the tree by the fence
produced a single white blossom, also halfway up the tree and on its right
side.
Every morning and evening I greeted that single blossom as
though it were the queen of nature herself. No mother was more attentive and
appreciative. I marveled at its four perfect petals with curled edges the way a
first-time dad counts the fingers and toes of a newborn infant. I wondered at
the biological clock of these two young trees. What growth threshold had they
crossed that allowed them to produce a flower? Why only one? How many blossoms
might they have next year if all goes well?
Gradually, my attention was drawn elsewhere in the garden. I replaced
broken and tired pots and especially delighted in a lime green one that is the
very personification of spring. After weeks of rain the sun came out and
everything seemed to perk up. The strawberry runners I’d transplanted last fall not only made it through the winter, pink and white blossoms began to appear. How marvelous!
Then last Wednesday tragedy struck. As I approached my front
door, I was brought up short. All the leaves on my eight-year-old jasmine plant
were brown and many had dropped to the ground. Only the night before it was
green and healthy. Now it appeared to be dying.
I was in shock. Searching for a cause/effect reason for this state of affairs, I thought maybe I’d neglected it when the sun
came out. So I drowned it in water, but there was no miraculous recovery. Maybe
the yardmen accidently put weed killer on it? No, I don’t think so. The plant
looked so sad and terrible, I thought maybe I should move it so I didn’t have
to watch it struggling. Then I realized, “This plant likes this space. Moving it
would be about my feelings, not about what this plant needs. Let it be.”
Next morning, I googled “brown leaves on jasmine” and
learned that this was not the first time a jasmine plant got brown leaves. One
article said it was frost. Well, we had had several really cold nights. But
then, it had made it through several winter frosts, why would a spring frost
get to it? Another article said it was drought. Well, I had been so enamored
with my dogwood blossom and a week of sunshine that I had failed to watch and
water this plant that had dazzled me with its fragrance for so many
summers. A third person wrote that
it was lack of nutrients. I don’t do much fertilizing, so that was also
possible. Another just said, “don’t expect blossoms this year.”
I went outside and stared at the second set of leaves that had fallen to the ground. Now more than half were gone. However, the plant’s barrenness revealed something I had missed earlier. Looking closely at some of the branches, I discovered fresh green growth at the ends. In examining the plant, I saw that almost all of the branches had a tiny bit of fresh growth. I thought, “This plant will live!”
I pruned away dead branches, sprinkled Osmocote around the
roots, and put fresh soil into the container. All the while I talked to the
jasmine, expressing my desire for its return to health. I spoke of how very
special it is and how much I appreciate the pleasure it has brought to me. I
promised to care for it as best I can by continuing to ask, “How can I help?”
By now 98% of the jasmine’s leaves are gone. It is a bit
like one’s hairless head after going through chemotherapy. Nonetheless, I have
resolved to appreciate the sculpture of the branches and stop bemoaning the
missing leaves. If I allow it, this plant will teach me to stay in the present
rather than look to the past or long for the future.
My precious jasmine has taught me Depak Chopra’s Seven Spiritual Laws of Success:
- Pure Potentiality, think Ongoing Manifestation
- Giving, think Gratitude for Abundance
- Cause and Effect, think Karma
- Least Effort, think Acceptance of What Is
- Intention and Desire, think Practicing Awareness
- Detachment, think Openness to Uncertainty
- Purpose, think Talent Given in Service
I would love to hear from you about how your garden (or
nature in general) nurtures your spirit.
