A Season of New Growth

March has flown by, almost as if January and February came simply to divert our attention while she slipped out the back door unnoticed. Dogwood trees are white with flowers, fresh grass and a haze of green hums in the bushes, the sun stays around a bit longer, and nights occasionally bring an unsuspecting frost; Spring is here in middle Tennessee, and with her has come a season of new growth.

This year, I committed to pursuing sustainability. This can mean various things, so let's be specific: I've committed to growing this business slowly, at the pace life permits, which in turn means resting as a practice even when–or especially when–there is still more to do. If you have read my previous journals, you know this is hugely due to the burning down I experienced last year, and it is also something I will actively have to grow into. 

We all have choices like this in life: continue as we are or begin the messy process of growing into something new. This might look like taking steps toward a long held dream, beginning parenthood, or letting a friend in on that hidden addiction you are fighting. Regardless of their size, these early steps are the first signs that growth is on the horizon.

And it's here, once we have chosen to move into the unknown, that we are tested with a demanding question, "But are you willing to grow even when it's painful?"

If you have ever chosen to do something brave, you know this question to be true. Right on cue, after deciding to pursue growing slowly as a business, the question came to me heavy and with precision. Three weeks ago today, David logged in for work in the morning. By the afternoon, he was unemployed. His company had had unforeseen layoffs that affected him and many others. Closing a mortgage for the art studio just weeks before losing an income does not align well with "grow slowly" as a self-employed artist–especially for someone who grew up with the threat of scarcity always around the corner.

But before I continue, please hear me. This is not a journal of fear or a plea for pity. This is a journal about new growth. 

Not every season in life includes "new growth," and thank God it doesn't. There's something comforting about momentum; widening our rings and reaching our roots deeper, all while climbing to new heights we've never been privy to before. But when the season for new growth does come, like a potted plant moving to the garden beds, our roots are ripped up, shaken out, trimmed, and planted elsewhere. 

And it's here, in this frightening and tender place of change, that we have a choice; resent the resistance, cave under the pressures, and run back to the safety of our previous life – or – we choose to go forward anyway.

It sounds romantic on paper–even as I write it–but the truth is when we choose to grow despite the resistance, we find ourselves a bit lost at first. Our internal lives can become a whiplash state of I don't remember growth hurting so badly, nor being so uncertain, nor simultaneously feeling so certain I must grow to survive, though I have no idea how. I'm so tired. I'm so scared. I'm so excited. Everything is so new.

It's funny how quickly we forget the intensity of these early days. It makes me marvel at infants and their will to survive. But like infants, the goal in this new journey is not perfection, it is growth. Wobbly, messy, one-step forward and two-steps back kind of growth. In other words, the goal is simply to respond to that demanding question with, "Yes, I am willing to grow even when it's painful."

So…as I write to you with March slipping out the back door and the dust of change settling around me, I find myself a bit like a repotted plant; ripped up, shaken out, trimmed, and placed elsewhere. And yet, there is a quiet hum of excitement as new things bud below the surface.

Growth, as unaesthetic as it may be, means the earth below us is changing. The foundation we stand on, the roots that will determine the breadth and width of our potential, are taking form. Be brave enough to believe the growth happening below the surface will one day change the landscape above as well. Be brave enough to grow slowly.