Two plum trees in my garden were stressed and subsequently went through a healing process with the support of good nutrients and the natural passing of time. I’d like to talk about ways you might begin thinking about your own transitional process in relation to how these plum trees have not just survived, but prospered.
Seasons in the Garden
As I sit soaking up the sun in my suburban Boston garden, there is still snow on the north side. It is almost April, and yet, it is still cold here in New England. I begin to imagine the spring days ahead when I can work the soil with my hands and plant my tiny seedlings into the deep, dark, rich earth. But I have to wait; it is not yet time. When I’m aware of seasonal rhythms, I can more easily align with the deeper wisdom that exists within. Winter always gives way to Spring. We can trust the seasons and their perfect sense of timing. But when we find ourselves in a transitional moment in our own lives, how do we trust? What do we trust?
Transitions are in-between times; they are periods of waiting. Most of us find it so uncomfortable to wait that we are usually ready to jump right into the next thing. Old job to new job. Old relationship to new relationship. My work consists of supporting and guiding people through this “trepidatious terrain,” as I like to call it. Whether a personal or professional change, I always urge people to take a pause. This pause can have tremendous power in your life because it gives you time for awareness and reflection. Where have you been and where are you going? What do you need to take with you, and what do you need to leave behind?
Transitions are subtle, and change rarely happens overnight. Instead, transitional moments are composed of layers that unravel as quietly and steadily as night merges into dawn. Instead of fearing or avoiding life’s powerful transitions, we can adopt an attitude of trust and surrender to a larger sense of time. We are not in control, but we can create the most supportive, fertile ground to nourish our ongoing change and growth.
When seeds are planted in rich fertile soil, they first make roots that steadily reach down into the earth. Roots must grow first because they provide the strength to hold up the plant as well as to absorb the nutrients to eventually grow the stem, sprouts, and green leaves.
How can we apply this profound wisdom to our own lives? Spring is approaching within us. How fertile is our soil? Which seeds have been sown? Where are our roots growing? Are we paying attention to our own inner rhythms and nourishing our growth so that we can burst forth in the new spring green?
When a seed is first planted, the root growth isn’t visible to the eye. The root is growing in the deep darkness of the soil. How do we know? Because eventually, once the root has taken hold, a green sprout will break through the soil.
Seeds offer us a metaphor for our own lives. Take advantage of this seasonal transition to till the soil of your life. Make it free of weeds and rocks. Fertilize it with extra nutrients and the compost of what no longer serves you. Nourish and water well, and support the tender growths until they are strong and steady. Have patience. In its own time, the spring sunshine will surely melt the winter snow and provide the necessary conditions for the new seedlings to grow into their full potential.
Welcome to Halé’s summer garden…
A large, stately, 75-year-old mulberry tree lives in my garden. Twelve years ago, I planted a rambling rose at its trunk to rise up to levels most roses cannot go. I supported the prickly ramblers so they could climb up the tree’s branches, but over the years it has never produced any flowers. During the time the rose would normally bloom, it was always in the shade of the mulberry’s lush green foliage and abundant berries. I have fond memories of the comical sight of raccoons, squirrels, birds, my children and their friends all climbing the tree’s branches to pluck the luscious red-black fruits. The mulberry was a gathering place for all of us at the beginning of summer.
The last few winters in New England have been more severe than usual, and many of the mulberry tree’s branches are now bare. This spring, it showed signs of dying. Meanwhile, this has been an exceptionally good season for all the roses in my garden. Yet among the dozen or more varieties, the rambling rose has been truly exceptional. For years the rose has quietly climbed the mulberry and this spring it took over the bare branches with hundreds of pearl pink flowers cascading 30 feet above the garden. We enjoyed this incredible display of beauty for more than a month. Family, friends, neighbors, students, clients, bees, insects and birds all gathered to receive this nourishment.
Besides creating space for the rambling rose to grow to its fullness in the sun, the dying mulberry tree has expanded the perimeters of the garden. Its branches used to shade parts of the garden so that it was impossible to grow many light-loving plants. Now the additional sunlight has given me the opportunity to plant dwarf plum trees as well as many other perennials that could not grow there before.
Although this is just another summer in the many seasons of my garden, it feels very significant that the oldest member, the most firmly rooted, is showing signs of letting go.
The bare branches of the mulberry tree now provide the perfect structure for the new growth to come into the light. Although I feel a certain sadness about its passing, as many of you have heard me say, in order to receive nourishment, we need to make space, and making space requires letting go of what is no longer necessary.
Ah, the harvest. When my children were young, we would go to local farms to pick apples, pears, peaches, cherries, plums, blueberries, and raspberries. While each fruit has its own special qualities, raspberries were always the family favorite.
Each September, we’d pick hundreds of raspberries. Of course, the children would eat more of the sweetly tart fruit than they accumulated in the little pails that hung by strings around their necks. Coming home with our bags of juicy red fruit, I would enter the kitchen as though personally heralding in the new harvest season, ready to make jam out of our bounty.
This year, like other years, I performed my ritual of raspberry jamming. I love the feeling of preparing food for the season when local produce is less available. For many of our mothers, aunts, and grandmothers, this was a natural cycle. As simple as it may seem, making jam aligns me to the deeper rhythms of our ancestors, who didn’t prepare for immediate consumption but for the long winter that lay ahead. I have a deeper appreciation for the sweet-tartness of raspberry jam in January than I do in September. One spoonful and it’s enough to bring summer back in all its glory.
I also know how much time, energy, and love goes into each small jar. I just sent one precious jar from the newest batch to my daughter at college. She told me that she’s eating it in small spoonfuls straight out of the jar, just a little bit every few days. This way, she said, she’s making it last, savoring the fruit of the season.