Before the Bloom
And patience with the process
This morning, just after sunrise, I was back out in the field with buckets in hand, walking the familiar path to the new lilac bushes planted along the road. Twelve of them, reaching eventually for the role of guardian and grace, a border of privacy and beauty, layered with intention.
They’re beginning to leaf. Fresh green, soft to the touch. A few are still adjusting, looking a little uncertain, but most are steady. What I haven’t seen yet is much upward growth. No new branches reaching. No sudden bursts. And I found myself wondering, will they make it? Are they sinking in?
Then I remembered. The real work starts where we can’t see it.
For a lilac to rise, its roots must go deep. It’s not weakness, this slowness. It’s growing wisdom. Roots mirror what will eventually appear above ground. Strength below makes space for height later.
It reminded me of the soul.
So often, we offer our energy to the invisible, tending something internal with great care, and then question our path when nothing seems to change outwardly. We forget that rooting takes time. That depth comes before bloom.
I’ve been thinking of that water I carry as life force. Each bucket an offering to the work happening out of sight. The tending, the trust, the quiet belief that what matters most takes shape in the dark first.
Jung wrote, “No tree, it is said, can grow to heaven unless its roots reach down to hell.” I’ve always felt the truth in that. Descent isn’t failure. It’s the prelude to wholeness. If we long to touch something sacred, we need a body that knows how to hold it. That strength comes from below.
And then Teresa of Avila, whose words have stayed with me: “The tree that is beside the running water is fresher and gives more fruit.” There’s something about being consistently fed, even in stillness, that allows the soul to grow into its own shape.
The three lilac varieties planted will bloom at different times. I chose them for that reason. I needed the reminder that not everything flourishes at once. That some parts of us are still in winter. Some just waking up. Some getting ready to offer fragrance.
So I keep watering reminding myself to be patient with what grows slow and deep.
Even before the bloom, the roots are listening.
Thank you for reading. These reflections are part of my ongoing practice of noticing how the rhythms of nature mirror the soul’s unfolding. If this resonates, I’d love to hear what you’re tending in your own life right now, what’s rooting quietly beneath the surface.
Love this so much. Beautifully said. (PS If you want to learn some mind blowing things about plants - they smell, hear, feel vibrations, can recognize kin, and have "behaviour" patterns similar to animals - read The Light Eaters by Zoe Schlanger. I just finished it and can't stop talking about it!)
This question really resonated. What am I tending to in my life right now, what's rooting quietly beneath the surface? First thing every morning, I go outside with my dog. And I walk around my yard, deadheading all the flowers. Removing the faded heads of flowers. Off with their heads, to prolong the bloom and encourage reblooming. Pinching off old growth to new re-flowering. Even though it's an external practice, it feels like it's coming from within, mirroring the souls unfolding as you say. There's a sense of grief even with regeneration and rebirth. Letting go of the old so that new growth can bloom.