Gimme a break. I just had breakfast with Pema Chödrön.

I love this woman. And I’m so grateful that people like her exist in my lifetime and we can hang out whenever we want to. I mean, not literally. But see, I was in a pensive mood today. 

Friends and acquaintances were suffering, and I could feel my heart grow heavy. Usually, I would slip right into the pit with them and feel sad, guilty. But maybe because I’d just come out of a season of lament — mostly over not managing my time well and never quite finding enough space for myself — something else arose. Gratitude.

I felt an upsurge of gratitude— for being healthy, for having had a beautiful birth experience, for being a mom, for a healthy child that’s developing so well. 

In the video that showed up thanks to the algorithm, Ani Pema talked about aging. And she said a line that will stick with me:

Flowers bloom and then they wilt. Don’t take it so personally. 

I love how she’s able to break it down so easily. These teachings, wisdom teachings as she calls them, are so profound and yet so simple. And the best part – once they click, they stick. 

That’s it, right there. Nature is cyclical. As women, we have the cyclical nature built right in to our bodies. Yet for a long time, I didn’t quite know what to make of it. I sometimes wonder what it would look like if we had learned to embrace it.

Every fall, I leave the wilting jungle out there on my balcony for a while. I watch it. I contemplate. I harvest seeds and marvel at the way a stem sprouts a budding leaf, a blossom turns into a shelter for seeds right in front of my eyes and yet still a mystery to me. How did one thing become another? And then, plop, it drops. The plant dries up. Ready to go again come next year.

Thich Nhat Hanh described it so well when he said something akin to I see the flower, and I see the compost it creates. It’s a mystery to me how I put soil and water and the plant makes something green out of it, with structure, strength and life. In biology, we learn what happens, not how. One of the most fascinating things about being a mom is to watch a person grow. How does each little part know exactly where to go and what to become and when to die so that other new parts come and take its place. And how did this beautiful being ever fit inside my belly?

Flowers bloom and then they wilt. They do, time and again. Right in front of our eyes. And yet we seem to have very little patience for the wilted parts.

Perhaps that’s why I leave the wilting jungle on my balcony every fall. In a world that prefers things neat and in bloom, I find myself drawn to the dry stems and fallen petals, too.

I’ve reached a point some people call midlife. I know some things are past their peak, and other experiences are yet to come.  And I’m learning to lean in to this. The idea that nature has its way of doing things. That I can go with the flow, and enjoy each phase with what it brings.

So as I’m finishing my cup of tea, I take a moment. Look out over my little green paradise, my balcony jungle. I need this green probably just as much as it needs me.