One love in my life has taught me the joys and pains of nourishment: plants. Nurturing plants involves more than just giving them water; a plant grower soon discovers the needs of proper light, fertilizers, pruning, and love. Plants like to be talked to or to hear classical music. Kirlian photography has demonstrated that plants have their own energy fields which are affected by their surroundings. Plants do have their own consciousness, and if you're around plants long enough, you begin to appreciate their amazing life force.
My love of plants was instilled from an early age. Both of my grandfathers had a vegetable garden; our house had lush, colorful landscaping, lilacs in the spring and mums in the fall. My father planted trees around the yard -- conifers now majestically standing 60 feet high. My mother always grew plants indoors; her children have plants that are her plants' grandchildren. I also received plants from my grandmother. I had a Christmas cactus that grew from cuttings of my grandmother's plant. I had to take it to my sister's house because it wasn't doing well at my apartment. One day I decided I wanted it back and went to pick it up. My nephew was then around five, and he wouldn't let me take it. He told me it was his mother's plant. I decided to leave it there. The plant had become a part of his family. It seemed right for the cactus to stay where it was being appreciated by the fourth generation.
I also love outdoor plants. I have just started gardening outdoors in Florida, and everything is so extreme: the heat, the humidity, the insect life, the rain, and sometimes the cold. The growth factor here is also phenomenal. I have always been a little wary of trimming plants. My inner nature is more inclined to let plants go their own way with growth; I love to watch how their life force can shape a tree, plant, or bush. However, here in the jungle, I have learned the importance of pruning a plant so that its new growth will be strong and healthy. So I am now aware that to nourish sometimes means that I have to cut and trim, that I'm not destroying or hurting the plant. I like to think of it as giving a plant a haircut.
Whilst these experiences have taught me some of the joys of nurturing -- that I can help a green friend along -- I have also learned the pains of nourishing: that I can do everything I think I can do to help, but sometimes it isn't enough. A plant has its own cycle, and sometimes I have to let go. For example, a plant will appear to be fine one day, and the next day it will start doing poorly and then die. I've learned to accept that its cycle has ended. This lesson of letting go has become an extremely poignant one recently.
My husband and I have three palm trees in our front yard. At first, we weren't sure how to take care of them. We had never had palm trees before. So we learned how to trim them and fertilize them, while appreciating their shade and the sound of the wind rustling through the fronds.
One of them is outside the window my desk faces. It stands over 20 feet. The green fronds would wave at the sun and sky. From my desk, I would often sit and look at the lizards crawling up its rough barked edges; sometimes a mockingbird would perch and sing a beautiful song.
A month ago, during an intense thunderstorm, I saw a bolt of lightning hit the palm. A tremendous fireball seared down the side of my beautiful tree. When the storm let up, I ran outside, anxious to assess the damage. Some bark had been blasted off the tree, and the surrounding ground had been cleared of all mulch covering. I was hoping that the tree had not been damaged too much; from its outer appearance it looked as if only the bark had been hurt.
Days passed, however, and it has become obvious that the tree did suffer severe injury, and indeed was dying. The fronds have turned brown and drooped. I can no longer sense the life force in the tree. Even the lizards and birds seem to have deserted it.
I grieve for my tree. It had stood so handsomely next to the driveway, always welcoming me when I pulled up. Now, every time I look at it, I want to reach out and help. I've checked with nursery folks and tree services; they all tell me, "Sorry, your tree has died." Palm trees hold water in their trunks; when lightning hits them, they literally get boiled to death.
I will give the tree some time. Perhaps the tree is just in shock. Perhaps it will pull through. But during this time of self-acknowledged denial, I am really trying to ready myself for the inevitable: that it will have to be removed.
But, my green friends have also taught me that the cycle
of life and nurturing continues. I will miss my tree, but I will plant another
one and nourish it, watching it expand its own consciousness as it reaches
towards the sun, sky, and rain.
MaryBeth Matthews has been a member of Eckankar for 20 years and has led spiritual workshops. She currently teaches writing and literature at USF. Sarasota (941) 355-0536. E-mail: mbmatt@juno.com.