I bought only one geranium this spring. It has sat on the picnic table on our patio for a few months now.
When I brought the plant home and placed it on the table, it was full of rich, healthy, bright pink blossoms. I treated this plant the way I treat most of the potted plants under my care. I neglected it. I watered it when I thought to do so. I picked off dead blossoms when I noticed them.
I am not the best of caregivers.
Despite my neglect, the plant flourished, which is one reason I love geraniums. Unlike more delicate plants, they require little care.
I appreciated the plant’s beauty, its determination when it came to surviving, and its uncomplaining nature.
But now the geranium is fading. Fewer and fewer new blossoms appear. Several of its leaves have died and others are turning brown. Its life is almost spent.
As the plant’s caregiver, I will one day decide the time has come to remove it from my patio table.
I studied the aging geranium for a few minutes this afternoon to see if I could learn some lessons from it. Some, of course, are obvious: Bloom where you are planted. Be what (or who) you were designed to be. Strive for independence and do not expect special treatment.
Good lessons for any plant or any person.
As I have grown older, I too have faded a bit. Much of my beauty, strength, and independence are gone. I now move more slowly and think more slowly. I forget things and repeat myself. I also repeat myself.
I am losing my sharpness and my ability to think on my feet and respond quickly. I relied heavily upon those assets when I was young, and I refuse to let go of them easily.
I know age brings additional knowledge and hopefully even some wisdom, but much of the knowledge I once had I have now lost. My husband asked me today if I remembered how to find the hypotenuse of a right triangle. I lied and said I did but at the moment I was eating an ice cream bar and didn’t want to spoil the experience with a conversation about math.
As for wisdom, I am no wiser than most. I know enough to come in out of the rain, to take good care of my teeth, and to sacrifice style in order to be comfortable in my shoes and clothes. I know my grandkids would rather have my time and attention than any toy at Wal-Mart.
Admittedly, I didn’t make all these discoveries by staring at my geriatric geranium. But I did learn this. No matter how old that geranium gets, it is still a geranium. Though it is now weaker, it draws upon strength from within to keep blooming.
I will not say of it, “That plant is not the geranium it used to be,” because that is blatantly wrong. It is exactly the same geranium.
The same is true of me. Though I may not appear as sparkly and zestful as I once was, I am still the same woman. The way I look on the outside does not reveal who I truly am. That determination is made deep on the inside. It is my core, the compilation of all I have learned, experienced, and chosen to be.
It may take more effort, and the results may not be as awe-inspiring, but I will continue to bloom until my caregiver, the One Perfect Caregiver, removes me from the spot where He placed me.