No life without death

Imagine:

The wind blows--maybe gently or maybe violently--enough to shake a seed free from it's parent plant, which may be a small, insignificant weed or a majestic, towering tree. Depending on the weight of that seed, it either sails along on the breeze until the wind loses its breath and sets it down in some far-flung location, or it plummets swiftly to the hard earth with a thud. It may sit on the ground neglected for years. Or it may be snapped up by the sharp, unforgiving beak of a passing bird and deposited far away and left bruised. Eventually, though, it sinks into the dirt, moving further and further into the darkness. It is isolated and apparently cut off completely from the world it once knew. It settles into the isolation and seems to disappear completely. But above the surface of that never ending night, the sun keeps coming up every day. Water from unknown sources finds its way to the seed and offers whatever nourishment it can give. And after the appropriate amount of time, something strange begins to happen inside the seed. Something from within reaches for the light that isn't even visible. Some instinct demands that it take in the water as it flows all around. The seed does not remain the same. In fact, it is ultimately destroyed. Its shell is shattered, and it can no longer even be called a seed. But in its place a new, beautiful, life-giving entity emerges. And when it has left the darkness behind for good, it continues to move toward the light, becoming a more beautiful, more perfect version of what it was all along. 

It's interesting that the process of growth and life can feel so much like death and destruction. It's fascinating that something so beautiful can come from such difficult circumstances. Truly, it is the only way. The seed was always meant to become something amazing. But it never could have done so without the process that seemed like death. 

As it is with plants, so it is with people. Let us not resist the process that makes us who we are meant to be, even if it feels like death at times. And when we find ourselves buried in the darkness, let us not be overwhelmed by fear. Rather, let us keep reaching for those things and people who nourish us. Parts of us will surely be destroyed in the process, but that is okay. That's how growth works. The beautiful, life-giving parts of us will remain, and that is our gift to the world. 

The Puzzle of Life

Jigsaw puzzles have always given me anxiety. Seriously, just thinking about doing a puzzle can increase my heart rate and cause my breathing to become shallow. I'm okay with the border pieces because they kind of make sense. But seeing all the other pieces in a jumbled, unorganized pile on the table, with nothing but trial and error to act as a starting place for fitting them together, makes me very uncomfortable. The beautiful, alluring picture on the box has been shattered, and the individual pieces do not much resemble it. Intellectually, I know all those pieces make up the whole picture and that they can be put together to create it. But emotionally, it has always felt overwhelming to try to recreate the picture, knowing that, at best, it will only ever be an imperfect replica when it is completed--not smooth and glossy like the one on the box, but coarse and a little fuzzy. And then, what if a piece turns up missing and you can never even have the satisfaction of completion?! Even in the best case, you will spend hours and hours on this thing that you will just turn around and destroy within moments and sweep back into the box. It seems silly when I write it down, but I have literally spent my whole life avoiding puzzles because these are the feelings they stir up for me.

This week, my ten-year-old came across some 1000-piece puzzles in our game cabinet (that were not purchased by me but somehow found their way into our house) and asked if I wanted to do one with him. In fact, I did not want to. But, I wanted to spend time with him, and I wanted to encourage activities that didn't involve a screen, so I said, "Sure." Predictably, because it is the way I have subconsciously conditioned my mind to think about puzzles, I started to feel the stirrings of anxiety as soon as the pieces tumbled out of the box. However, because I have been on a journey of self-discovery and personal growth, I was able to stop my anxious thoughts and ask some questions:  Why should I have such strong feelings about a puzzle--something that is supposed to be a pleasant past time? Where are these feelings coming from, and how can I turn them around? Can I push through them and actually enjoy the experience?

It was then that I realized a challenging analogy. This isn't just the way I have thought about puzzles: it has all too often been the way I have been in the habit of thinking about life. The picture of what life is supposed to be is beautiful, but the reality of life is a jumble of chaos with no clearly laid out path forward. And I have been guilty of approaching life with anxiety that has kept me, in more cases than I'd like to admit, from even beginning to really live. Creating order out of the chaos has felt overwhelming and uncomfortable, and I have too often avoided it altogether. 

Before the border pieces were even all in place, my ten-year-old lost interest in the puzzle and went off to do other things (mostly things that involved screens). I was tempted to slide the pieces right back into the box and consider myself lucky for having gotten out of having to do the puzzle. But the revealed analogy wouldn't stop playing in my head, and I felt I had no choice but to take on the challenge to prove to myself that anxiety wasn't going to stop me from doing hard things and that I had the power to turn something that has felt unpleasant to me in the past into something enjoyable. 

I was delighted to find out that this particular puzzle is broken down into quadrants--A, B, C, and D--and that each piece is labeled with the letter of the quadrant it fits in. This felt manageable to me. With relief I thought, "I don't have to work on the whole puzzle; I can just work on quadrant C." And the analogy grew in perspective. Sometimes life is just a pile of chaos, it's true, but oftener than not, there are clues about where the pieces go, even though the individual pieces still don't resemble the whole picture. It still takes a lot of trial and error to get things in the right place, but there may be more direction than we perceive on first glance. For example, there are a whole lot of things in my life that fit in the "Teacher" quadrant. Because teaching is one of my strengths, it keeps cropping up in different places in my life, fitting together with the other pieces in that quadrant to fulfill that part of my life's purpose. And when I take the time to fit those pieces together--even when it takes a long time and it feels uncomfortable and I inadvertently put several pieces in the wrong spot and have to try again--it feels really good to see the picture of what my life is about starting to develop.

I have not yet finished the puzzle my son and I started. But I have completed quadrant C, and I feel very proud of myself for that accomplishment. I feel prouder still that I was able to recognize thought patterns that have kept me stuck for much of my life and for being able to turn them around. With regard to the puzzle (and life), I am finding calm instead of frustration in creating order out of chaos. And I feel determined to complete it, even if I have to do it on my own. The more pieces I fit into place, the easier it becomes, making my initial anxiety seem ridiculous. Anxiety is rarely rational, but it is real. Thankfully, it can be overcome. 

One day the puzzle will be completed and then it will be broken down and put back in the box. But that's okay. I will not regret the time and effort spent on it. The puzzle was never meant to be permanent. The purpose of doing the puzzle was to find peace, enjoyment, and fulfillment along the way to creating a beautiful--though imperfect--picture.