Sowing Sunflower Seeds
shifting the energy of my mom's garden
At face value, this might not seem like a bright spot. Trust me, it is.
Paralysis has returned. It’s always an invitation to take stock. So I did. While lying motionless can be incredibly frustrating, it is also a gift. I mean, don’t take it as a housewarming present or anything. It’s an immediate indication to assess my surroundings. Have I stopped listening to myself? Is there something amiss?
I’m going to fast forward to the end, the part where I figured out what was happening.
The garden.
Buried in the garden are little, energetic grenades. I’ve been inadvertently exploding them. It’s hard to avoid something that you don’t know is there.
For all the enthusiasm and laughter that my mom brought to this life, she also had a way of festering. She would head into the garden and channel her anger and pissedoffedness (totally a word) into the ground. Weeding was her outlet. Except, instead of that energy dissipating, it pocketed and burrowed. It reminds me a bit of Duncan’s buried memories in Locke & Key, with some added volatility.
So when I work in the garden, the anger and resentment that she sowed into the soil drenches me. When I’m not dealing with paralysis as a result of this, the pain is so unbearable that I can barely move. And oh the sadness. A grief that isn’t mine. There’s good news. What accompanies this understanding of the booby trapped garden is how to dismantle it.
Sunflowers.
The garden has asked to be vented. Enter the change of plan.
All current plans have gone out the window. The seeds I’ve ordered will patiently wait until next year. The pre-ordered plants from Lakeview Hill Farm will find their way into backyard planters or alternate homes. The garden has asked for something else.
Before the next heavy storm, I’m to scatter sunflower seeds with some wildflowers included for good measure. No proper planting. No carefully made paths. No measurements to determine ideal distance. Tossed, like rice at a wedding. Pounded into place by the force of the rain.
The ground needs to vent, like subway tunnels in winter. Right now it’s ready to blow.
Dozens of bright yellow faces will follow the sun. One by one, they’ll release those pockets of emotion buried in the ground. Off gassing. Transmutation.
Here’s the kicker, and how I know that I’m really onto something — scrapping every inch of my plans feels instantly freeing. My body softens. My heart expands. The furrow in my brow takes a vacation. This is what the garden needs.
It’s a gift to my mom.
She didn’t know how to do this on her own. I get to help her. These energetic ties span death and time. She’ll feel their release wherever she is in the cosmos currently. The unshackling will be felt in my home by the house itself and those of us in it.
All too often we override our energetic knowing in favor of logistics. The time or effort or money that we’ve poured into something convinces us that we need to stick with it. Here’s the permission to walk away. Release it. Change your mind. Allow for an unexpected outcome. We forget that the change of plan can unlock something altogether new. Maybe, just maybe, that’s what all that prep was readying us for in the first place.
P.S. There’s one more piece of this. We forget how much emotion can be socked away in things. Objects hold memory. When we’re shifting a space or moving or excavating someone else’s belongings, it’s not unusual to experience some level of transference. The closer you are or were to that person, the more the complexity of those energetic entanglements increases. Be gentle with yourself. Even those with the clearest of energetic boundaries can get ensnarled in scenarios such as these.