“I planted the seed, Apollos watered it, but God has been making it grow. So neither the one who plants nor the one who waters is anything, but only God, who makes things grow.” (1 Corinthians 3:6-7)
With the promise of spring approaching after our long, cold winter, I began preparing and hoping for another green season filled with propping, pruning, and tending to my garden. Watching life slowly emerge from the frozen earth, as if waking from a long slumber, is truly nurturing. There are many reasons I cherish this time of year beyond the marvel of colour and bloom. Spring stirs something inward. It invites reflection on the natural world and offers us many pearls of wisdom.
One of the first thoughts that surfaced–like the tulip shoots rising in my front garden–was the notion of space. The simple act of bringing out houseplants that had been sheltered through the long winter brought with it a reflection: the need to create, offer, and hold space so new life can grow and thrive.
The first plant that needed attention was my Anthurium (“tail flower”)–gifted to me three years ago by a friend. Still in its original wrap, it had continued to bloom faithfully, flaunting its bright red laceleaf. However, beneath the glossy leaves was another story. This resilient plant had grown and expanded far beyond the limits of its small plastic pot, quietly supporting new saplings that had sprouted underneath, unseen and nearly suffocating.
As I removed the old wrapping, I noticed thin strands of roots poking out through the drainage holes. It wasn’t a pretty sight. The plant looked weary and unbalanced, heavy with tangled, old and new interwoven roots, and its leaves were slightly misshapen. Clearly, it was time for a change. The saplings needed their own pots if they were to flourish.
Six pots later, I still had a few left to rehome. Lining them up in a row, I felt a surprising sense of relief for both them and myself. Gently detaching each tender shoot from the mother plant required patience and care. It’s never easy to cut and separate, even when you know it’s necessary. Still, I was cautious not to damage the roots, cradling each sapling into its own space, helping it feel safe enough to begin again. A few were bruised, and some roots slightly torn, but the leaves looked strong. I knew they’d be okay. They just needed some extra care and time to adjust to the change.
As I watered the last plant, a few thoughts occurred to me. We humans are not so different. To truly grow and thrive, we need space to expand and develop. We must metaphorically detach from the umbilical cord that gave us life–not to sever the connection, but to discover our nature, path, and place in the world. Even in our individuality, we remain shaped by and rooted in the love and nourishment of others. Our identity and sense of belonging are grounded in those early, often unseen roots.
The need for space is part of the natural cycle of life. No one should be denied the chance to grow. Whether by choice, passion, or calling, we are all called to observe this pattern–to tend to those in our garden, offering what is needed: space, light, water, pruning–whatever supports flourishing.
Yet even as we branch out and grow into ourselves, we still need support–the wisdom of elders, the nurture of community, the comfort of familiar soil. Like plants, we are not meant to grow in isolation–unless by design. And even then, we carry our essence with us, flourishing in the light and company of others while remaining true to who we are.
It is a genuinely intertwined and mutual way of existence–being present for one another while staying rooted in our identity and calling. It’s not a power dynamic, but a delicate balance of care and autonomy–a beautiful rhythm to witness when held with grace.
As I placed each pot along the windowsill, my final reflection was this: growth requires care, gentleness, and attention. Mutual care and responsibility are not just virtues but lifelines. They allow each of us to stretch toward our God-given potential, to blossom into who we are meant to be–in the great, interwoven garden of life.
