At the front of our house, right under the main window, years ago we planted an Aeonium succulent that has grown well, and has become quite tall.
It became clear over the years by the way that it grew and spread that where we had planted it was the perfect place.
It has thrived there, and become a lovely “Welcome home”
This year, a few of the stalks have developed big, brightly colored yellow flower cones, and
the other day, when we got in the car to go somewhere, my husband commented on how beautiful they were;
And they are beautiful, but I know from learning about them that those blooms only show up once, and when you see them, they are a sign that the death of that stalk is not far behind them.
Those bright yellow flowers are a Grand Finale, of sorts,
letting you know the life of that portion is almost done.
The moment I learned this about my beloved plant, I felt sad.
I hoped at least part of it would still be OK, and I wouldn’t have to see the whole thing gone.
I am a person who likes things that are built upon.
I hate having to start things over from scratch.
The car hummed as my husband fiddled with things that day, as we got ready to go,
but I sat in the passenger seat still staring at those yellow flowers on their stalks, thinking about their poetry, and the lesson I can learn from them.
My days lately have been filled with concern, as the world around me continues to shift, and to groan.
The stress of the news, and the state of the world threatens every day to leave me zapped of energy, and curled up into a tight little ball,
and just like learning the truth of those beautiful blooms,
every day it seems there is something new I almost wish I had not ever learned.
Lately, I’ve felt like it’s hard to even make plans, because a lot of my feelings of excitement for what the future may hold have been diminished because of the increasing unknown.
Will we still even be able to go on that trip? Cross that border? Take that flight safely?
What will the future for my girls and my grandaughter even hold?
In one way, the Aeonium can remind me how easy it is to think things will always stay the same,
but then some form of decay starts under the surface,
and you’d never even know;
But if I look closer, and focus on the flowers, instead of the plant’s impending death,
I see that the story of Hope is always what is most true, and most beautiful.
The most amazing thing about these blooms is that they look completely different from the rest of the plant.
The Aeonium itself is uniform, all green and reddish brown, rounded pattern, predictable.
Then, suddenly, overnight, you’re staring at this explosion of yellow daisy-like flowers that have now burst out of the top.
They’re almost jarring. Their appearance always comes as a shock.
The first time I saw them I thought they were a whole other plant.
There is no denying they are the most magnificent part of the plant’s life – Right at the end – At the very last minute: The exact reason we can hold out hope.
Nature teaches us so many lessons about true beauty, life, and about letting go.
It teaches trust, and that what is delicate can also be what is strong.
I’ve always loved the saying, “If softness was weakness the flowers would never grow.”
By just a little sprout the earth moves.
Looking at those flowers that day, I saw in them myself, and the world,
and how often a surprise comes when we think it’s the end of it all;
When the healing takes place, when redemption comes.
It’s never when it’s most expected, or the easiest, but it’s always what makes us and our story the best.
The best version of us comes after a long life of harsh weather, hot sun, and sometimes hard-to-see growth.
The beauty comes when we’ve been fully shaped, and stretched to our fullest potential.
When we have become.
That’s when we hear, “And then, in the nick of time…” or the “and just when they thought it was the end”s.
A glimmer.
Suddenly an explosion of color, and life.
The bees start to show up.
Suddenly, when you thought it was all over, this new part feels like it was the goal all along.
Those flowers were a picture of this to me on that day;
A reminder that sometimes life saves the surprising best part for last, and to never ever give up hope.
My plant has lived on through several Death Flowers now, and new shoots have continued to form to replace any that were lost.
This is what life is in so many ways:
The cycle of what falls off and what comes back.
You would never know when looking at the Aeonium in its early version that it has those flowers forming to show off in the end, just like how you would never know what a person, or a family, or a city, or a whole country has brewing when all you can see is darkness.
The Aeonium flower says hope is still pulsing under what, for now, may look like winter’s trampled soil.
But, it’s not over yet.
There is a pulse.
Bright yellow flowers are waiting to burst.
Mom Outnumbered
Hi! My name is Kerri Green; Wife to Justin, and mother to four highly entertaining daughters -Alena, Chloe, Tessa, and Paige. I am an artist, a writer, a daycare provider, a lover of people, a believer that there is humor and beauty in all things, and the author of Mom Outnumbered; a blog about real family life, and my observations of it. My goal is to make people laugh, to be there for them when they cry, and most importantly, to let them know that they are not at all alone in this up and down world. I live with my family in Sebastopol California, and I am opening the window into our life. So welcome! Come in. Sit down. Just please don’t mind the mysterious wet spots.
