Re-Potting Plants

I had this glorious plant: its leaves were green with this kind of purple fuzz growing on them. It was so pretty, every time I looked at it, it made me happy. I had bought it at Wallmart, taken it home, and eventually replanted it in a pot that worked well. I gave it a place of pride on a windowsill where it could get lots of sun, and it flourished. It grew so very tall, its leaves extending to the sun, soaking up the warmth and light, their purple gleam settling upon my heart. I luxuriated it its growth, in its beauty, in the pleasure it gave me to look at it.

But, alas, my plant outgrew its pot somewhat. The top of the root structure started to protrude. And even though its leaves were tall and luxurious, they also had a definite lean and angle. Thus, my mother decided to re-pot my beloved plant and trim its stalks.

I was so sad when I saw it. My plant, its leaves reduced to pathetic stubs. Look how it doesn’t reach toward to sun any longer! Look how desolate and frail it appears! All its glory lost. I admit it, I was a little devastated.

I think it affected me so much because I feel kind of similar to my unfortunate little plant. I was let go from my job. I’ve been feeling pretty useless. I’m not entirely sure of my place in the world. I’ve been living with a resurgence of Posttraumatic symptoms and the depression that can come with that. I’ve been having doubts about my relationship with and place in the Church. Why am I going here at all? What am I bringing to this community, anyway? Is ‘church’ the right place for me to be if I’m trying to heal – among other things – from church? If you don’t feel trust or community or fulfilment deep inside yourself, if you’ve lost your connection and your way with God inside a relationship of fear and distrust, is it okay to admit that? I’ve been feeling displaced, un-rooted, like I cannot even begin to long for and lean toward the sun.

It’s never an easy place to be, the place you find yourself when circumstances uproot you. It’s uncomfortable, messy, less-than-ideal. But, like the plant, it might be that you need that displacement if, in the future, you want to thrive. It might be that, for a while, you’ll have to make do with less: less beauty, less utility, less leaves to long for the warmth and the light. Close to the dirt, you have time to regroup, to solidify, to recover before once more venturing out, finding yourself strong enough to seek the sun. It’s okay to just be surviving, for a time.

So here I am, not reaching for anything. It’s not beautiful. It’s not glorious. My plant is on the windowsill, short and squat and ignoble. But maybe, just maybe, we’ll be able to sink our feet deep into this new and unfamiliar ground.