Blessings: Thoughts While Deadheading Petunias
Image: two raggedy magenta petunia blossoms amidst crabgrass. These aren’t mine ~ they popped up in a spot where my mom had planted wave petunias probably something like 10 years ago. I do love volunteers.
Some years ago, while my father was hospitalized in the aftermath of a serious stroke, I felt overwhelmed by the emotions and fatigue of constant vigilance in caregiving mode. I paused one summer day to take a little time away from the institutional setting, and when I paused long enough to lift my eyes, I noticed that in my busyness, I had not managed to keep up with the task of deadheading the petunias. The gorgeous hanging planter that my boys had given me for Mother’s Day (an annual tradition) was looking absolutely pathetic, and I almost just pitched the whole thing. Something stopped me, though, and I decided to give it one more chance. I fed it some plant food from my mom’s supply, and I picked and pinched, watered and puttered, spoke gently to the plant, and all the while I thought about the lessons I could and should learn from deadheading. Here’s what I wrote at the time and shared on Facebook:
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This morning’s uncomfortable theological reflection while deadheading petunias:
Sometimes the dead bits look an awful lot like the about-to-bloom bits, and vice-versa. And sometimes the only way to promote life is to pinch off what is dead … or almost dead … or actually dying even though there’s still something beautiful about it. And sometimes, in pinching off a dead bit, you actually discard a bit with a lovely bloom. And the truth is, the crispy-dead stem with the lovely bloom on the end of it that you’ve just accidentally plucked off is still crispy-dead, and it would not have magically become green and living again if you had just ignored that reality and let it be.
And sometimes, with timely pruning and a bit of patience, the faltering plant rebounds, and becomes lush and vibrant again, though rarely as perfect as when the plant first left the farmer’s market. Resurrection happens, but more to the whole plant than to the individual stem, you know? And still, you keep on watering, keep on pinching back, and keep on loving the whole thing.
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As a minister, and as an 11-year hospice spiritual counselor, I have spent a great deal of time keeping company with death, grief, and anticipated loss. I don’t mean to always “go there,” but it sure does happen. I have to say, I laughed out loud the first time I saw this meme:
Image description; Two jars with coins in them. On the left, the one labeled “Swear Jar” is nearly empty. On the right, the one labeled “Talking About Death When I Wasn’t Asked Jar” is full to the brim. Uh oh … someone has talked about death at a party again…
So, yeah. An occupational hazard: a mundane task turned into thoughts on petunias and death once again ~ that’s not all that uncommon for me, I suppose. I bet lots of us go there in our mental meanderings, don’t you think? And in this death-denying, eyes-averting culture that we’ve developed around the reality of death, I find that people are actually pretty desperate to talk about it. Once they realize that it’s a topic that’s not off limits for me, friends and strangers seem to find some relief in telling their story or asking their questions.
At the moment, thought, it’s not that deep for me. I’m simply finding meaning in reflecting on the image of the attentive gardener, deadheading petunias. Somehow, that image feels like a blessing to me. Perhaps it’s one you need right now; that said, even if it speaks to no one else, it speaks to me. Sometimes that’s enough.
A blessing:
On that day, when the petunias planted or potted in May begin to look weary,
may you remember their beauty and the delight of that new beginning.
May you honor the tending that you’ve managed well,
and forgive yourself for those days
when you just couldn’t go out there one more time to water them.
May you find peace in the kindness that allows you to be judicious
as you pick off the dead bits,
and that helps you to notice where the beauty still lies.
May you pray ~ however it is that you pray ~
for that which still has life, and for that which is letting go of life.
And may you love the whole plant, for the whole time that it is yours to love.
And when resurrection and renewal come,
may they come with generosity,
abundance, and great joy.
love,
Susie