Broken Glass
I woke up this warm, sunny morning, sleepily enjoying the large pine trees dancing outside my bedroom window. It’s day-four in my new home and while sleep still doesn’t come easy, I’m getting to know the speckled ceilings, the marks on the walls, and the creaks in the floor boards as I walk down the stairs. It’s a lovely sight as I peek at the greenery on my deck. The previous owners left some pretty baskets along the fence which add a splash of colour to the peeling, cracked wood.
When I first moved in, I brought all of my plants from my last home out onto my new deck and perched them on the rail to become better acquainted with the new air, the new sky, a different angle of the sun. One in particular I’ve had for three Mother’s Days now. I only know that because every Mother’s Day I think, “Wow, I haven’t killed it yet!” I’m not a particularly skilled gardener, nor was I born with even remotely a green thumb and most of my relationships with plants are short-lived. This plant was a favourite though, for two reasons. First, it represents a day that matters to me, and the bursting red, heart-shaped flowers that erupt from the long, firm stems remind me of my son, my heart. The second reason is that my best friend at that time bought it for me because he knew that my son would not have made that effort. I didn’t need my son to buy them for me to confirm he loved me because we’re just cool like that, but my friend took the thoughtful step of making it look like he did. It was a special plant, year after year surviving in the same tall glass vase it was purchased in. The glass had earthy brown stones in the bottom and a dense maze of bright green roots entwined right up to the rim of the glass. So many times, I wanted to transplant it. But this was no hardy hosta. This was meaningful and significant and I couldn’t fathom a way to deconstruct, then reconstruct what to me was a true work of art and meant something a little extra special.
This morning, I walked down the creaky stairs to find my plant smashed to the finest of pieces on the floor of my deck. My heart sank. That said, I had to giggle at myself for my klutziness. I simply can’t be trusted to own nice things. I’ve been in this house four days and I’ve already broken two wine glasses. I’d earlier determined that those outdoor patio-type wine glasses were more my cup of tea after losing dozens of fine goblets over the years but upon moving into my new home, I thought I’d return to real glass; not even dollar-store wine glasses. Real, quality wine glasses. Well, you win some — you lose some and I’m on the losing side after four days. Seeing that plant, on its side, covered in shards of sparkling glass was just further evidence that fine things are not my friend.
The plant has thrived for most of its life. It’s had its high and low points and has weathered the brutality of the extreme seasons as they came and went but it always came back to its original health, re-establishing itself despite the confines of the constricting glass vase. Season after season, year after year, it persevered.
That plant could have become a monstrosity by now. It could have tripled in size, bursting with dozens of bright red hearts but instead, it was my own fear of destroying the plant and my unwillingness to take a risk that led to its simple existence. Sure, I could have researched how to transplant it but based on how my brain is wired, it seemed daunting, almost like the nauseating thought of assembling IKEA furniture. For those who are handy and skilled at following detailed instructions, the transplant would have been a no-brainer. For me, it was just in the too-hard basket. Besides, it was special. I liked it in its original form. There was a particular nostalgia attached to it and its survival. I couldn’t chance it. I put it off, year after year. Until today, when the universe decided that my complacency, my lack of courage, and even my laziness was no longer mine to control. I truly believe that what is meant to be will always find a way and that life balances itself out. When you try too hard to hold on to something, you most certainly lose it. And when you don’t care for something that needs tending to, you lose that too. So the plant crashed. What other option did it have to reinvent itself? It certainly couldn’t depend on me to provide the opportunity.
Where did I go wrong? I left it in harms way. If something matters, you don’t get careless. My intentions were good but putting this special plant on the edge of a rotting deck board for four days was not smart. Sure, I’ve had a lot going on and it’s been a hectic time so I’ll give myself a break. But in life, if you don’t tend to the things you say you love, you lose them. Where else did I fail? I left my favourite plant in a container that she had simply outgrown. When you love something enough, you provide it the space to grow; to become the most magnificent version of itself. Giving space takes courage. We can get very comfortable with what is familiar and we can call it love or sentimentality but more often than not, it’s fear.
So, I tiptoed over to the deck and started collecting all those earthy stones, one by one, careful not to cut myself, placing them in a taller, wider glass vase. I separated every tiny shard of glass in between each complicated thread of root. And of course, I cleared the area to ensure my dogs little pads wouldn’t be subjected to even the most microscopic of fragments. I gingerly gathered the web of roots into my cupped hands, magically maintaining the shape quite well and placed it atop the tiny brown beads in the bottom of the vase. It fit perfectly but with room to spare, room to grow. I filled it with water so it could morph into it’s own new shape and placed it in some sunshine on a sturdy surface so no harm would come.
Everything has to grow. Plants, animals, people. Sometimes we outgrow our environment. I’m not saying our environment has to break in order to grow because I don’t believe that whatsoever. Perhaps our opportunity to save something is through changing the conditions necessary for growth. Perhaps I could have provided plant food or moved the vase to a different window during the harsh winter months to give it even a chance at becoming a more robust version of itself.
Destruction is not a prerequisite for construction. We simply need to take better care of the container that is our life so that growth is possible. So, while I was sad to see something that had been beautiful and consistent for so long literally explode into pieces, part of me realizes that in the absence of changing the conditions, putting it in a position to break was ultimately necessary to allow it any chance to flourish. And so is true in life, in every realm, in the workplace, the home, in friendships and loveships, and in your backyard vegetable patch, create the conditions that allow it to thrive or eventually it will most certainly fester and die. Address the restrictions, the constrictions, the confinement. Transplant the things you love into bigger containers so they can emerge even stronger. Don’t leave growth to chance, or broken becomes growth’s only hope.
