If there is anything
the magnolia trees would tell us,
rain-bowed and resolute,
it would be to bloom
while you can,
to listen to the inner yearning
that beckons you
to spread your petals
and greet what comes,
whether it be thunder or sun.
Sixteen years ago we planted a magnolia tree as a memorial for our baby, Noah. In all that time, it has never managed to grow even as tall as me. Every year it bravely puts on buds, and often, a sudden frost takes them before they fully bloom.
This year, the beginning flowers once again turned brown and were overcome by sudden cold (88 degrees to 17 on the same day they bloomed). However, this morning as I sat outside feeling a dull and defeated by all of the global chaos, I looked over and saw something unexpected: one more small new bloom on this little tree, still somehow trying again.
Not every memorial becomes a towering tree. In fact, this stunted tree is poignant in its symbolism—and literal expression—of a dream that failed to thrive. I honor this smallness, the ways life keeps trying anyway.
Small, persistent blooming is still holy.
We can feel frostbitten and flowering at once.
Where in your life are you blooming again even after frost has killed a dream?
A brief excerpt from the Live community practice in which I shared this story is included here in video form:
