WTH - You (and Mrs. Uhle's Irises) Have What You Need Inside You
Our first house was impeccably maintained for fifty years by Mr. Uhle, a sprite, German octogenarian. The house itself structurally sound but the outside blissfully unkempt. He admitted that his wife, who had passed decades earlier, had tended to the yard. He was "reminded of her when the tall heads of the bearded iris sprang up over the carpet of greens." Little did I know we'd carry a bit of Mrs. Uhle with us for 25 years and counting. Nor did I realize that those iris would remind us that we all have what we need to weather change and disruption, even when it feels hard to bloom.
An army of irises served as a natural fence on three sides of our bright back yard. In between, there were smatterings of liriope and grape hyacinth. These were the only flowers we maintained with two small children, and by maintained, I mean looked at!
A few years later, as we prepared to move to Maryland, my mother suggested I take a few plants from the yard to transplant. As we deconstructed our second-hand swing set, I dug up a few iris, stashed them in a plastic Wegman's bag, and tucked them inside the swing parts so might remember to plant them.
Our new house was in a planned community, shaded by gargantuan trees and uncultivated wild space. Again, we had a yard overrun with unspecified plant life, with a few paths leading to a clearing just large enough for the swing set. On the side, there was a small patch of sunlit yard that would be home to Mrs. Uhle's iris. As the kids swung and slide, I tugged weeds and removed decomposing matter. Eventually, I plopped the rhizomes into their new home south of the Mason Dixon. I wondered if they'd grow in this climate or if I had killed them in transport. In those pre-google days, I didn't look that zones or how to transplant. I hastily buried them and checked them off my list.
It didn't take long to realize this was not the place for us. We were disconnected and stagnant, like the dormant iris struggling to find the right balance of sun, water, and air in our side yard. Our basement- became de facto preschool for our kids to build, explore, and on occasion, paint themselves when I left them unattended. Like those bearded irises, we spent a lot of time underground, struggling to harness the energy to emerge stronger and better in our new space. We just didn’t find our tribe; within 14 months, we moved 30 miles away. We were learning what worked but not thriving; it was time to transplant.
It took a lot of effort to find the iris to dig up as they barely sprouted. Once again, they were wrapped in a plastic bag and packed away, though I was skeptical they had any life in them.
The second new house had a yard of shade and sun. I was hopeful this was a good sign for humans and plants, yet I left the irises boxed up in the garage for the first summer. We set up a preschool-like basement but invested in a sturdier swing set. We were figuring out what worked in transitions and adapt to an ever-changing life in our third house in five years. We were also learning to accept what needs shedding and what requires patience.
Mrs. Uhle's irises were eventually planted and, frankly, forgotten again. Two, maybe three years later, small green spears emerged from the ground. Mr. Uhle’s words reminded me of an earlier, easier time in life. They made me smile as I looked a yard full of trees, and mulch and memories in the making. I didn’t have cutting beds I dreamed of, but I had it pretty good.
I became consumed with day to day tasks. I did little gardening unless it connected to my teaching and thereby allowed me to multitask. A few years passed with no bearded iris, just those green spears poking above the ground cover and seemingly, growing. My children and our lives grew rich and varied as well, but we were thrown some curveballs that disrupted our family ecosystem.
The tall purple soldiers finally emerged one spring. They often brought smiles to my face, which, in retrospect, was often severe, sad, or in a state of shock. I was not a cheerily, patriot Navy wife. I was all Mama Bear, harnessing my energy, and trying to protect and care for my kids while the Navy sent my husband on the first of many adventures abroad. Again, I was reminded that these came from the same irises that made Mr. Uhle smile.
Our summer was spent at my parents, as a distraction and effort to reboot and rejuvenate. I was forced to make an abrupt return to our home was after a fire ripped through our attic. As I drove back with my father, a million things went through my mind. Those iris were not one of them. But as we pulled into the driveway, I struggled to keep my legs and breath steady and absorb what had happened the day before. Three things stood out to me:
Friends surveying the rubble to salvage what they could. I was astounded at their love and efforts.
The tall trees in the yard were littered with contents of my closet, items having been thrust out by firefighters' water. Sweaters dangled for months like something from a Dr. Seuss illustration.
In the summer humidity, there was a grey blanket covering the backyard, punctuated by green spears and tinges of a dull purple.
A year later, we were back in the house. We learned to practice a lot of patience and grace as we mucked through this transitional period of uncertainty, scarcity, and fear. And those irises came up tall and strong, some nearly 2 feet tall. They bloomed magnificent shades of violet and periwinkle. The had been gathering strength for years and greeted us like shades of our former selves: hardy, healthy, and somewhat heroic.
In the years that followed, I used my meager gardening skills to randomly transplant the expanding army of irises around the yard. In some places, they faltered or remained dormant for years. In other places, they sprouted swiftly and boldly in a new location. They had all that they needed inside and would rise up on their own schedule, again, hardy. handsome and heroic.
Over the years, Mrs. Uhle's irises endured challenges and disruptions to their ecosystems. They endured change and disequilibrium that forced them to reboot and come back stronger.
We're all a bit like these irises, especially in these pandemic days. We've got what we need inside to grow and thrive. Often external environment uproots us or tosses us into disequilibrium. When that happens, we need time to hunker down to rest and gather our energy. It's in this dormant stage, underground and sequestered, that we can build on what we know and shed the deadwood.
Then, my friends, we can bloom hardy, healthy, and heroic. When we endure disruptions and uncertainty, we can harness what is inside us to emerge with vibrant color and energy in the new space we occupy.
Ready to come back hearty and heroic? Let’s chat about how coaching can help you emerge with energy and determination.
