Unfolding

A friend gave me a package of seeds. They were labeled "mixed hollyhocks". She said they were selected from a patch of brilliant colored flowers. I waited almost a year to put them in the ground. 

First I had to wait for the snow to melt and the soil temperature to rise. Then I removed all the weeds that had encroached and prepared the bed. The seeds were lovingly placed and tamped into the earth. Now the waiting. 

Hollyhocks are a type of plant, a biennial, that will not produce flowers the first year. The foliage will flourish and the plant will set strong roots but the flowers do not appear until the second year. No matter how I desire to see what color flower these seeds hold, I have to wait and allow the plant to mature on its own schedule. No amount of my wanting, worrying or pleading will change the course of nature.

I do not know if my seeds will even germinate. Maybe they lost their vitality in storage. It is possible that the young plants may not make it through their first winter. Equally, the potential is there for a full spectrum of colored hollyhocks to grace the wall of the cabin for years and years. The bees and the hummingbirds will drink their nectar, they will pivot their petals to greet the sun each morning and will provide a cheery welcome into my home. I cannot see the future.

Why is it more challenging for me to acknowledge this natural unfolding in relationships?  How often do I feel the pull  to break open the seed to see what mystery it holds? By doing that,  I would destroy the opportunity for growth. The seed cannot set its roots and push its tender  leaves through the soil if it is pulled at, has too many nutrients applied or dug up to have its progress inspected every day. 

Planting a seed is an act of faith. Faith that a power greater than ourselves is taking care of the seed and has a divine plan. If the seed is meant to thrive, it will. We can, of course, help it by providing water and keeping the weeds from invading, but we cannot change the plan. I am doing my best to see that allowing relationship to unfold at its own pace is acknowledging my faith. If I strive to see what lies ahead, I am destroying the newly planted seed. My need to know how the story ends is like needing to know the hollyhock's color. Do I really feel that I can control the outcome? Why would I want to? How would that contribute to my evolution and growth. I, like my seed, am strengthened by the challenges of my environment. Can I trust the process and learn from my years of gardening? 

Whether the hollyhocks grow or not, it does not change who or what I am. I will continue to enjoy all the other flowers in my garden if this package does not produce. When it is time, if necessary, I will plant again. I  find pleasure in the waiting, watching and unfolding everyday. Only the Divine knows the plan. I relax into that knowing that I am the gardener that tends, but I am not in control, nor do I wish to be.