Plant Again

Here I am…. Planting once again

I love working in my garden. Some of my keenest memories of peace and tranquility have come with my hands in the dirt. Which is why I couldn't understand what was happening this week: I didn't want to go outside.

Consequently, I found many creative ways to avoid planting the wonderful array of flowers I had purchased. I was tired. I had a book to finish before it was due back. A walk was more important than my plants.

It wasn’t the weather. It wasn’t the time. It wasn’t having all the supplies and plants.

It took me several days to diagnose my unusual procrastination, a dramatic difference from my eager anticipation to get my hands in the dirt.

In the spring, two dear friends shared a bounty of Hostas and ferns for the hillside I’ve been slowly reclaiming from years of neglect. And I eagerly weeded, improved the soil, planted, mulched, and watered.

It was wonderful – not just the outcome, but the work of it all.

And then, just as the new plants were taking root, a terrible thing happened. The deer had an early summer feast – and every single Hosta and most of the ferns were eaten. Not a single one survived.

And so, this fall, I vowed to replant once again. Smarter this time, selecting “deer-resistant” plants that were jagged on the edges with thick, furry leaves, not nearly as delectable as a salad bowl of fresh Hosta garnished with a few fronds of ferns.

And even with great weather and several flats of plants, I have little energy to do the required work.

After five days of this nonsense, I finally had the insight that it was the re-planting, the rework, the wasted effort the first time that was draining me.

It wasn't the work I resented. It was having to do the work again.

And I mused (as I am apt to do) I realized that starting is one thing. Starting over is something else entirely.

I thought about how often in this life we plant, falter, and plant again. And how, at times, that can be exhausting and draining.

Yet the hard reality is that many things we “plant” often fail to take on the first planting.

After 22 years of entrepreneurship, I’ve experienced the plant-falter-plant again cycle many times. As much as we’d like to think we can build things to last or get it right the first time, that's rarely the case.

Yet through this lens, I look back and see that what seemed like failures in the moment often came back in another form. A business I couldn't sustain in my early 30s prompted my vow to myself that “sometime I’ll build a business of my own again”. I never forgot the vow, even though it took me 15 years to fulfill it.

Life, for most of us, seems like a plant-falter-plant again cycle. We get the degree and establish ourselves in a career, only to encounter a change (in ourselves or our employer) that prompts us to start, start, once again. I think of the farmers, who replant even after a year devastated by floods or droughts. I am reminded of the people who rebuild after fires, hurricanes, and tornadoes.

Which is why planting again can yield results. We get to try it again, this time with a different approach. We are clearer about ourselves and our lives the second (or third or fourth) time around. Some of the things we think failed may simply have long germination periods.

As I reframe replanting my hillside, I am reminded of a story that continues to touch me deeply.

As I stood looking at my hillside, I thought of Jean Giono's The Man Who Planted Trees, the story of a shepherd who quietly plants acorns year after year, never knowing exactly what will survive. Decades later, a barren landscape has become a forest.

Perhaps that's the bargain we make when we plant anything. We do the work without any guarantee that we'll see the outcome we imagined.

See: The Man Who Planted Trees - Wikipedia

I’m certain that my new deer-resistant plants will not change the world. But I am also certain that reminding myself of the need to plant-falter and plant again will spill over into other parts of my life  - a valuable reminder that replanting is part of the work of creating something vibrant and lasting.

So, I'll plant the hillside again. A little smarter this time. Perhaps a little less certain. But I'll plant.

Because maybe that's what creating anything worthwhile asks of us—not that we get it right the first time, but that we are willing, when necessary, to plant again. And knowing that when we do plant again, we aren’t the same person we were the first time. We are wiser, smarter, and even more committed to the task at hand.

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