Earlier this spring, I embarked on what’s become my annual tradition of starting seeds indoors for my garden. Similar to last year, this was a highly anticipated event and when the time came, I carefully gathered all of my supplies and started my project. I’d learned a few things since last time and was proud that this years’ experience seemed to go much more smoothly. I gently placed the containers holding tiny seeds in a spot in the house where they’d receive sunlight and waited. I watered daily and shifted the containers throughout the day to ensure they received optimal sunlight. And I waited some more. Finally, after an interminable amount of time had passed, I determined the seeds likely were not going to start growing. Despite my best efforts the conditions weren’t quite right, the spot in my house where they had been placed was too chilly. So, I started the planting process again. But this time, I moved the containers to a warmer spot. And, again, I waited. And waited. Until I noticed tiny green sprouts beginning to push through the soil! Even though I was now several weeks behind my typical seed-starting schedule, I was excited by the new growth and determined to help the tiny seedlings progress as quickly as possible. To meet this goal, I created what I believed was an incredibly clever miniature greenhouse out of plastic tubs. I placed my seedling containers inside and put the entire bundle in full sunlight on my deck as I went about my busy morning, proud of my idea. Except two hours later, I returned and discovered with dismay that rather than foster growth, the trapped heat had killed most of the fragile seedlings, their leaves dramatically wilting in protest of the harsh conditions I had created. Discouraged, I attempted to revive them with little success. After a few days, I acknowledged I would once again need to replant. Despite waning confidence in my capabilities as a gardener, I have done my best to keep the containers in a warmer area of the house, providing sufficient light and water (but not too much!), and have attempted to gently console myself with the reminder that I can always just buy plants at the store to fill my garden.

In reality, I accept there’s a lot outside of my control when it comes to gardening. I can’t actually make the seeds grow. Even though I do my best to create an environment that encourages growth, I can’t physically transform the seeds into plants. This is an obvious observation but also a humbling one for me to truly accept. There is only so much I can do. This year’s seed starting experience has reminded me that the growing process is much slower than I’d like. I discovered I’m not alone in my frustration to accept the slow-growing reality. During one of my numerous “why aren’t my seeds sprouting” internet searches, I came across multiple articles citing various possible problems, each inevitably including a variation on the theme of due to gardener impatience. Seeds require time to sprout, they can’t be rushed in their journey. They require specific conditions, including warmth, sunlight, water, lots of time, and the nurturing presence of quiet darkness.

Throughout this experience, I couldn’t help but notice the parallels to my seed-starting venture and my life’s journey. Sometimes it can seem like I’m on the right path, doing the “right” things. I’m processing experiences, making healthy choices, and identifying necessary corrections in order to grow, only to discover that I’m not actually making any progress. In fact, at times it seems I’m regressing, like leaves wilting from too much heat. I often forget I can’t rush life; that sometimes rather than expending extra effort in an attempt to leap forward through some short-cut, many journeys require patience, quiet rest, and even darkness. In his book, Anam Cara, John O’Donohue offers his reflections on darkness, “All your life, your mind lives within the darkness of your body. Every thought that you have is a flint moment, a spark of light from your inner darkness. The miracle of thought is its presence in the night side of your soul; the brilliance of thought is born in darkness. Each day is a journey.” Sometimes this journey feels interminably slow, but there is growth happening in the quiet patience of darkness. Similar to gardening, nurturing and navigating growth requires time and patience throughout the journey.

In my recent Season of Slow Down post, I shared about how my current grief journey has caused my life to shift to a very slow speed. This slower speed has required an acceptance of patience as a necessary component in the journey toward healing and growth. Although processing grief is exhausting and confusing, there are aspects of the season that have given me a chance to pause and reflect on what I value in my life. Throughout this slow down, I have rediscovered the importance of friendships and connection. As part of this renewed appreciation, I have become increasingly aware of how I interact with those around me and have found myself being more intentional in my thoughts and words toward others. Grief has reminded me in stark and powerful ways that I often don’t know what someone else is going through. Even those I think I know best, there’s always something that someone is dealing with that is just beyond my awareness. During my quiet time reading several months ago, I came across a quote by Anton Chekhov, “Should his heart break and the grief pour out, it would flow over the whole earth, it seems, and yet, no one sees it.” In her reflections on this quote, author Martha W. Hickman observed in her book Healing After Loss, “It is an odd feeling to be walking along a busy street, or going in and out of stores, with a grief so central and preoccupying it seems to define our existence, and yet people walk by not noticing at all!” There’s so much I simply don’t know about the burdens those around me carry.

As I have created space to pause, I have relearned the value of simply listening. The shift from busyness to slowness affirms the fact that listening can’t be rushed. Listening can’t be squeezed in between hectic moments; by its very nature, listening requires time and patience. A children’s book, The Rabbit Listened by Cori Doerrfeld, highlights the power of listening. In the story, a young child experiences a frustrating situation to which various reactions are offered by passersby: anger, disappointment, revenge, fear, judgment. Despite the suggestions, nothing provided comfort to the child. Until someone listened. Sometimes I envision the power of listening as if it’s sunlight poking through the shadows of not knowing; listening allows for awareness and understanding to illuminate the previously unknown. Genuine listening offers comfort and can even transform the isolating shadows of sorrow into reflections of light and hope. Throughout this current season of grief especially, I have learned the value of slowing down and listening as being an important part to my healing journey.

Last week, as my daughter helped me water our third-times-the-charm round of seedlings, she gasped in excitement every time she noticed new growth. “Why hello little seedling! So nice to meet you!” she gushed over and over. Her enthusiasm made me think that maybe in my season of slowdown I should be just as excited when I notice new growth within myself. Maybe part of my journey should include celebrating the small moments of patience and appreciating the slow-down of daily healing that happens in quiet moments. As I continue to navigate grief and grow in my awareness of the complex experiences of those around me, I hope to use my renewed appreciation of slowing down to listen and stay more present-focused. And, I hope the light found in the slowing down will keep pushing through the dark shadows as I continue to look for the unexpected beauty and growth in the slow moments of life’s journeys.

Wendi is co-author of The Unexpected Ever Afters blog and enjoys sipping extra hot coffee, sharing a love of reading with her kids, and exploring bike trails.

photo credit: personal photos