It was bound to happen,
this natural part of life.
You put down roots, deep deep roots, over time,
and look at what happens.
This schefflera has been in this pot
for about as long as I've been at my current school.
Minding its own business, doing its job.
Growing taller and going deeper
with every moment, day, month, year that passes. And now, it's
Check out the way its purple roots are sprawling into the pea gravel.
It has outgrown its home.
It's not like it happened overnight,
but this morning for the first time I noticed it.
Have I been too busy to pay attention?
Maybe I just wasn't ready to see what it needed.
Or strong enough to do anything about it.
Clearly it's time for a transplant.
It's bound to hurt a
when it has to leave the comforts of its blue pot.
But this plant will improve, be better, thrive
in a bigger space with more room to grow.
Makes me think of graduation.
A bittersweet sea of blue.
Marking a milestone.
And a beginning.
At once happy ... and sad.
My transplant really hit close to home
at Kindergarten graduation last night.
|Look at the adorableness I found in my archives.|
I was holding my own, meeting and greeting,
welcoming our families to this celebration,
basking in the delight of my littles as they'd squeal my name,
as if they hadn't seen me in forever.
And then, the reminder:
So, this will be your last Kindergarten graduation.
Time to transplant.
What are you waiting for; let's get growing.
And I couldn't catch my breath.
It felt as though someone with a sharp, sheering shovel was
digging deep, really deep,
to get me out of that blue clay pot.
But I'm comfortable in here.
Hey, be gentle.
I'll do better.
Needless to say, but I will anyway,
the flood gates opened and I spent the night sobbing.
My poor husband didn't know what to do.
The good news?
There are therapeutic benefits to crying your eyes out.
It was a big ugly cry,
'cause I'm gonna miss that small blue pot.
So when I woke up with a puffy face and a dull headache,
I decided to take a mental health day,
to rest, regroup, and reflect on my new normal.
Am I eager, excited even, to move to the bigger space
to nurture the seeds we've planted?
But is my heart breaking a bit
as I say goodbye to and let go of the familiar?
So for today, I'm going to join these mindful little leaders
and Just Breathe.
Well, I may take a walk, a bath, and a nap, too.
What strategies do you use to
survive thrive through those transplants
when you find you're root bound?