I've Been Pondering Bulbs

At the bottom of my garden – right beside the letterbox as you enter the front yard – is a row of pretty yellow flowers. I have no idea what they're called, but I love them. They grow from bulbs.

My mother planted them and, for weeks, the garden bed looked like nothing more than a whole lot of hope. Because nothing happened. Or at least, nothing visible happened.

Every day the ground looked exactly the same. Dirt. Just dirt.

No shoots. No flowers. No evidence whatsoever that anything was taking place.

Which was seriously UNinspiring and, before long, I forgot anything was even supposed to be happening.

And so it was … until one glorious day when, lo and behold, growth appeared!

Slow at first. Just peeking. Like they were testing the air, uncertain but determined. And then they began to grow into plants. Interestingly, they all grew at different speeds and to different sizes but they all, eventually, became plants! And they all eventually flowered. All in their own time, in their own way. Aaaaand I love ‘em all!

So this winter, as I bumble through life as I feel only I bumble … I've been thinking about bulbs. Not metaphorically. Actual bulbs. And the strange confidence required to bury something in the dark and trust it knows what to do next (well done, Mum and Mum nature).

Because the moral of our story above is that, beneath the surface, unseen and unheard, something was happening. Roots were forming. Energy was gathering. The bulb was preparing itself for a future version of its life. A version we could not yet see. But a version completely and utterly beautiful and true to itself.

And, after 52 years of trying this thing called living, I've come to suspect that much of life works this way. The funny thing is that we completely accept this when it comes to bulbs.

Nobody stands over a garden bed three days after planting and screams:

"WHY AREN'T YOU THRIVING?"

Nobody posts passive-aggressive Instagram quotes about how the bulbs need to hustle harder or suggest they sign up for a six-week online course in accelerated flowering. We understand that roots take time. That growth happens underground. That becoming cannot be rushed. But for some reason, when it comes to ourselves, all common sense leaves the ground we stand on.

Every season seems to come with instructions. Summer wants us outdoors, living our best lives and apparently eating watermelon. Spring demands joy and delight and springiness and if you feel undergroundiness, you’re doing it wrong! January insists on reinvention. But by the end of February we're supposed to have reinvented ourselves again because the first reinvention didn't stick.

Yeesh. I can barely keep up.

Everywhere we look there are messages telling us to become more, do more, achieve more, optimise more and somehow emerge from every experience stronger, fitter, wealthier and emotionally well-adjusted.

Winter, meanwhile, is usually treated as something to endure until the real living can begin again.

Hmmmm, I'm not convinced.

I’ve been pondering bulbs.

In fact, hang with me here, people, … what if ... just a gentle what if …

what if winter is one of the most important seasons of all?

Ok, don’t bury me and run. Let’s sit with this together for a moment. I ask this because I am learning that winter reminds us that visible growth is not the only kind of growth.

Yeah? Let’s think it through together …

We live in a culture obsessed with evidence. Evidence that we're succeeding. Evidence that we're healing. Evidence that we're moving forward. Evidence that we're achieving. We count followers, promotions, milestones, achievements, certifications, purchases, steps, likes and anything else that can be measured, graphed or turned into a pie chart. We are encouraged to live as though nothing is real until it can be photographed, shared, measured or proven.

What if winter quietly suggests another possibility?

What if some of the most important things happening in our lives are currently invisible? What if growth isn't always something that can be observed from the outside? What if rest is productive? What if uncertainty is fertile? What if waiting is not wasted time?

What if becoming often looks like nothing at all?

I think about people carrying grief. I think about people recovering from illness. People rebuilding after heartbreak. People changing careers. People leaving things that once defined them. People finding faith. Losing faith. Questioning faith. People learning to trust themselves. People learning to trust others. People learning that survival and thriving are not always the same thing. People just hurting or confused or struggling or bumbling (hands up!)

From the outside, they may appear unchanged or just going on with normal. Yet deep within them, entire landscapes are rearranging themselves. And much of this work happens underground. Quietly. Without applause. Without announcements. Without before-and-after photos. Without anyone noticing. Including ourselves.

Perhaps that's why I find winter so comforting. Winter doesn't demand performance. The trees aren't trying to impress anyone. The bulbs aren't frantically proving their worth. The garden doesn't issue quarterly reports. Things simply continue becoming.

At their own pace.

In their own time.

Beneath the surface.

I feel like I am surrounded by people navigating seasons of uncertainty – myself included. And yet we spend so much energy fighting uncertainty, fearing it and trying to escape it that we rarely stop to consider that something important might be happening within it.

Until now, this has been me. After many tumultuous attempts to be in the springiness and summerness and January, February AND March, I have come to realise and accept that I am, in fact, in winter. I'm in a season of hidden growth. And it’s hard but profound.

There are projects being imagined. Ideas taking shape. Projects dismantelling. Ideas becoming warbled notions in a notebook somewhere. There are questions being asked, old stories being examined, new narratives being written, new possibilities emerging and old truths being layed to rest. My whole sense of self feels buried 6 feet under right now. But I think I am coming round to accept that that’s ok.

And perhaps that's exactly where it needs to be. There is often a temptation to rush things into the light before they are ready. To demand flowers before roots. To expect certainty before understanding. To require visible progress before allowing ourselves to believe growth is occurring.

But bulbs don't work that way.

They spend an extraordinary amount of time preparing for a moment that appears effortless.

The flower gets all the attention.

But it’s the hidden work that makes the flower possible.

And so this winter, I want to pay attention to hidden growth.

In gardens. In people. In communities. In everyday life and living. In faith. In conversations. In solitude. In relationships. In all the things that make us human.

That's what this issue of the Living Magazine is about. Not achievement. Not productivity. Not transformation in ten easy steps. Just the possibility that something important may be happening beneath the surface. Something worth noticing. Something worth nurturing. Something worth trusting.

The bulb doesn't panic because it can't yet see the flower.

It simply continues becoming.

Perhaps we can too.

Before You Go...

If this reflection resonated with you, perhaps spend a little time wandering through the rest of this winter edition of Kendall's Living Magazine. As the season is lived, so there will be stories, conversations, questions, creative invitations and fellow humans exploring what hidden growth might look like in their own lives.

And if you'd like to experience it all in person, I'd love to welcome you to the Winter Gathering – a cosy evening of creativity, conversation, music and community inspired by this season's theme.

No expertise required.

No thriving required.

No evidence of growth required.

Just bring your wonderfully human self.

We'll take it from there.

Saturday 18 July 5pm - 9pm

Details soon