The Garden of Surrender

The longer I live, the more I turn to nature for the deepest lessons. No, I’m not trying to be Mary Oliver but I cannot deny her role in turning me both inward and closer to nature.

This story starts in June when I began packing my house for the umpteenth time (the exact number no longer matters) in twenty-two years. It’s been a little over three months of swinging between certainty and uncertainty. You know, the kind where you’re constantly waiting for life to get back on track but a little wedge pops out every time you think it’s sorted!

There’s a comfort in knowing your path, there is! A sort of comfort that we often take for granted, because we do not know what it means to be uprooted from time to time.

For over a decade now, my plants have been constant companions as I’ve relocated between cities. About a hundred potted greens have changed homes with me, some of them proving quite hardy over the years. But that does not mean each one of them has embraced every new adventure with the same gusto. Sometimes, a sadness has engulfed them, much like mine, with the low mood swings beginning long before the actual move, just as the house begins to unsettle.

In the early years, I remember almost forgetting these plants during the hectic packing days. There was already enough to handle, and I hadn’t realised they required my attention. I wasn’t even quite the plant mom back then. But then, after a few years, I started to feel the same emotions in them as I did in myself. As if they needed the same reassurance. We began to look out for each other more than before… getting them out of the way of packers, finding them spots where they wouldn’t be disturbed by constant movement, besides the usual plant care. They, in return, became my light, allowing me to see and recognise myself in the midst of the tedium of life.

One thing about plants is that not every variety adapts well to all neighbourhoods, climates, or soils. Not all thrive under the sun or rain of every place. I’m not sure when science and emotion compete, who really wins but I don’t think it’s worth the risk. So, understanding their fear, many a time I’ve gifted away some of my favourites to friends and family, content that they’ll flourish more without me. After all, that’s the intent of living at all!

At the same time, I have pleasantly been surprised by the resilience of some of them. This summer, by the time we arrived in Jaipur from Kolkata, the holy basil had lost all its leaves and only a slender woody stem hung on for dear life. About two months later, it has now rediscovered its colour, with its leaves finding their way into my morning tea. The jade has also shared a similar story, living up to its image of being the friendship plant, never letting our bond down.

These two feisty ones have defied the odds, growing strong and green even after Hrishikesh bhaiya, the new gardener, had nearly given up on them. Patience is the key to survival, I guess. But there’s also a bigger lesson they have taught me – surrendering to the universe, allowing it to run its course, leaving yourself completely to its care, with faith. May be that’s how one must live too.

In I Ask Percy How I Should Live My Life, Oliver says,

Love, love, love, says Percy.

And hurry as fast as you can

Along the shiny beach , or the rubble, or the dust.

Then, go to sleep.

Give up your body heat, your beating heart.

Then, trust.

And just like that, on some mornings, I have woken up to find a small sprout saying hello to me.

There’s nothing like witnessing new life. Feels like your own resurrection. Those are the days when I feel certainty is perhaps given too much importance. That the unknown is a witness to the wildness, the chaos, the absurdity of life. That human desire for control, sensemaking and, if I may say, clairvoyance merely limits our ability to resuscitate. That life is, after all, dependent on the unseen and it is only in the garden of surrender that one can find new possibilities.