The Gardens of Life

“The Earth laughs in flowers.” –Ralph Waldo Emerson

            Deep within the forests of the earth, within the suburban gardens of a neighborhood, and whenever walk outside, there lies a flower; one that tends to mirror that which is within us. The most cliché of all metaphors- perhaps, yet the truest of all paradoxes is this: humankind is the only kind of flower that will pull at its own roots. The only type of plant that will flourish through the grimiest of soil, and through the harshest of seasons, and will look down and will either say: “it is well” or “this is not enough”. The only kind of foliage that is able to shrivel up and die, and one day, come back to life. Yet deep within the harvest, the earth laughs in flowers, and we, with our compassion and chaos, cry in seeds.

            In elementary school I learned about many flowers, including the jasmine flower. Originally, the name for the jasmine flower comes from the Persian name Yasameen, meaning: “gift from God”. This flower, depending on certain cultures, will often represent love, beauty, and purity. I remember learning that the most popular use of the jasmine flower was for the making of fragrances, and even tea. Nonetheless, I believe the beauty of this flower comes from both the extraction of its fragrance, and within the blossoming of its white petals.

            My best friend’s name is Jasmine. Externally, she doesn’t always remind me of a flower, simply because she snores loudly, and can burp her ABC’s. She’s a full time college student, mother of two, and the first time I stayed at her house, she showed me her birth video, a memory I think I’ve now erased from my mind. Talk about birth control. When we spend time together, it’s like we’re sisters, and usually there’s a mix of laugher, tears, heaving, and someone has peed their pants. One of us has been guiltier of the latter mentioned than the other. I won’t say who, but I’ve heard that having kids changes things down there. She blames me for her new found addiction to makeup, and gets frustrated that I never think her cooking is better than my dad’s. It’s just not going to happen. We send each other memes more than we actually text, and she’s the only person I’ll actually call on the phone and talk to for a long time, because she and I both know any conversation that lasts more than two minutes is taking away from my nap time for the day. She calls me her personal Shazam because she can hum a song or tell me five words and I’m able to tell her what song she’s talking about, but I call her my IMDb because she knows every single actor and actress that’s been on a television screen. We tend to have a girl’s night on most weeks, which usually includes watching a movie and eating “one cheat meal” or three, which cancels out any working out we’ve done for the entire month.

            “Will you get me a light saber for my birthday?” I tell her after we watched Star Wars: The Force Awakens.

            “Your birthday was two months ago.”

            “Yeah, but it’s an extended birthday month because of Hurricane Matthew. And guess what’s coming up?”

            “What?”

            “My half birthday!”

            “Haha! Yeah, whatever.”

            I’m still waiting for her to give me my light saber.

            But Jasmine has so much more to offer than any flower could. As to where she sees broken fragments in a mirror, I see a whole reflection- one with glints of light strong enough to break through every one of her fears. She will walk along this path of life telling you she believes in you, but when it comes to herself, she will tell you she is trying, as if that weren’t enough, and as if somehow we must have it all figured out. She is kind, compassionate, and loving, and has eyes to see so much beauty in others, but will oftentimes forget to see the beauty within herself. When she sings, I can see the chains break off of people, and she was one of the first people to plant seeds of courage in me when I first started leading worship. Although they were seeds once planted long ago, they are the fruit of what I see around my life today. Her daughters reflect the kindness and sensitivity that is found in her, and it is a breath of fresh air. If I were to somehow walk into a room without her noticing, I would envision her standing there, plucking petals from the beauty that is her life, and not noticing just how beautiful they are- no matter how rigid they have become. Sometimes she will call me and tell me the weight of being a mom and student at the same time has made her feel like a failure at times, and at other times, it has brought joy. But deep within the tone of her voice in those phone calls, is the sound not of petals falling to the ground, but of roots, firmly planted within the will of a God who loves her. As she listens to whispers of doubt and fear in one ear, I pray she could see the Gardener of all things kneeling down right beside her and whispering mercy and kindness into her other ear as He says, “the harvest for today is enough, and it makes me glad.”

            Jasmine reminds me not of a flower, but of a garden. Because gardens are to be sowed, reaped, and harvested. Gardens are made of flowers that both thrive, and in some seasons, dry up. Gardens are a sign of growth- one with seasons of both life and death. In my time of knowing my best friend, she has learned to thrive. She is slowly learning to be happy with the fruit that is coming from her life and is accomplishing things that she once saw as faraway seeds. Through all the trials, tribulations, and tears, she has watered her garden well, and the Gardener is pleased. When she gets up every day, I hope she will one day be sure that she herself is a gift from God, and that the fragrance that comes from her life is much sweeter than any flower she should find.

            However, after she had her second daughter, Jasmine went into postpartum depression. In this season, she wore her clothes like she wore her fears- clinging tight to every bit of strength, rugged and worn. She confided in me and would often share how she felt.

            “Naz, I don’t think I can do this. I’m scared, I feel drained, and when I get mad, I take it out on others. I love my daughter, but I feel like something changed when I went through labor, and I feel empty.”

            I didn’t know exactly what to say in that moment. Sometimes the most comforting of words come from listening ears. I listened, and I listened well, because sometimes silence is good for growth. Nevertheless, she used the hardest of seasons, to prep for the next one, and she could once again feel the rain.

            So these are the gardens of life- constantly and slowly learning that blossoming is a beautiful yet messy process. Not once will a flower think “it is too late” too bloom. This life is full of one day coming to understand that our roots, although not seen, are the strongholds of our lives. For one day, our leaves are green and thriving, and the next, they are shriveling up, and met with the dry nature of disappointment. That doesn’t mean that the garden has gone to waste. If anything, death and dry seasons are a part of growth, and within the core of human nature, the battle to dispel bitterness and hatred with love and compassion. The most poetic, yet simplest of messages is this: the sweetest smelling mess is that of human nature. The try and fails of everyday life, and the picking yourself up after dragging yourself down- that is the foliage of the universe. So for now we will cry seeds of doubt, and disappointment, and one day they shall flourish into the foliage that is creativity, compassion, and personal happiness. These words are dedicated to my best friend, and sister, in the hopes that she will see the foliage growing all around her, starting from her roots.