Lessons from the plant world
11/01/2011

“No striving.”

That’s what the plant said to me.

I was lying in her shade, stroking her leaves, inhaling her lemony scent, and hoping I was offering her something in exchange for all she was giving me.  That was our assignment: to go make friends with a plant, as we would a human being. 

When Don Alverto put it that way—“as we would a human being”—I realized how presumptive I typically was in my relationships with plants.  I mostly ignored their presence, except for the times they offered something I needed:  shade, flowers, fruit.  When that happened, I’d take what I wanted without so much as a “by your leave.”  I even joked that I had a “black thumb.”  I was so oblivious to the basic needs of plants—water, the proper amount of sunlight, occasional repotting—that they often died in my care.  I was worse than rude; I was homicidally negligent.

(I know some of you faithful readers of this blog may protest, “Wait a minute!  What about your garden in Washington and all the fabulous produce you grew up there?”  That is precisely why I was so astounded by my garden: it flourished despite my black thumb.  That first year’s garden was a miracle, or at the very least, beginner’s luck.)

But I was taking this workshop with Dons Alverto Taxo and Jose Picha Saca, two Kichwa elders from Ecuador, on reconnecting with the Earth and the indigenous wisdom of the Earth.  It might surprise you to learn that the first step is to stop treating it as if it were dead.  On the way to seeing the natural world as sacred, you begin by treating it as you would a friend.

So I went out to a big, bushy, flowering plant whose fragrance I’d previously admired and practically embraced her.  (Don’t ask me why, but I felt she was female.)  Then I thought perhaps I should get a boundary—after all, this was a plant with whom I was establishing a friendship, not one with whom I was already intimate.  So I backed up, introduced myself, and told her how much I admired her beautiful smell, her daisy-like flowers (which were now mere buds), and her abundant foliage.  Then I sat down next to her, with her leaves brushing my back, and attempted to empty my mind and commune with her.

Soon the sun became too intense and I wanted more connection with the Earth, so I lay down at my new friend’s feet.  From here I could look up through her dense maze of branches, stroke her lemony leaves, and consider what she might have to teach me.

“No striving,” she said. 

“Say what?”

“No striving.”

Ah, yes.  I’m a striver.  Especially if things aren’t going my way, my solution is to try harder.  Take now, for instance.  Since letting my primary client go at the end of August, I’ve been striving to make the next phase of my life happen.  It’s not that I’m “doing” anything wrong—sending out queries, asking clients for referrals, “beating the proverbial bush” (how’s that for making friends with a plant?)—but the energy I’m generating is counterproductive.  Because of course when you push, life pushes back. 

So my new friend’s suggestion was to stop striving.

She then gracefully demonstrated how it was done.  When one isn’t striving, one is simply being.  In her case it was: beautiful, fragrant, green, and productive—with perhaps thousands of buds just waiting to bloom.  Waiting to bloom, mind you.  No point in pushing the buds to bloom; they’d bloom when they were ready.  When the conditions were right.

And if the conditions weren’t right, and the buds didn’t bloom, I realized that my friend wouldn’t be heartsick over it.  When you’re not striving, you don’t get so attached to the results.  You do your part and leave the rest to forces larger than you.  You just keep being—beautiful, fragrant, green, and productive.  Rains come.  Sunlight follows.  Some people notice you.  Most people don’t.  You smell great anyway.  You produce buds anyway.  No striving; just being. 

I got up from her lesson, humbled and grateful.  I wanted to take a sprig of leaves as a memento, but I felt as if she'd already given me enough.  I thanked her and left a few strands of hair as an offering to her.

No striving.

And so it is.