Forsythia, How You Been, Girl?

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I opened the curtains in my bedroom the other morning and there she was, Forsythia, on the side of my driveway making her flowery proclamation. It’s Spring! Forsythia is a plant and I’m the owner who doesn’t pay any attention to her until she makes herself obvious.

This happens most years. I’ll pull my car into my driveway and notice Forsythia has bloomed. Suddenly, the data matches my intuition — it’s officially Spring. This is what I thought all along — with the higher temps, the longer light. But when I see Forsythia, I’m surprised. It’s like I knew it and didn’t know it.

It’s how I feel when I come to the last day of my seven-day weekly pill box. I know the last day is coming. I know it comes every week. All the signs were there as the week led up to the empty pill box. When it arrives, though, not only are my expectations met, but there’s a jolt to my awareness.

I can see what’s in front of me. I can interact with the world in the moment. Yet, I do this while ignoring the transitions happening right under my nose.

The seasons help. I’ve lived in the Eastern U.S. most of my life where we have delineated weather and scheduled flora four times a year. I like it like this. The change of seasons, the pill box, and Ms. Forsythia — they keep me on my toes. They’re markers of time and change, though clearly not enough. Each year I’m surprised to find Forsythia blossomed in my yard “out of nowhere.” Transitions happen under the radar.

Nothing in the world likes to sit around doing nothing all day. We all want transitions — humans, mountains, nebulas, and Forsythia. So, we do that, constantly. Whether we like it or not, the seasons will change and the flora will move from its blossomed state to dormancy each year until it fades one day into mulch.

The good news is that transformations happen. The bad news is that they often take time. This is only bad news when we want it to take less time — like getting into shape, developing a skill, or building rapport with someone. When we want something to happen faster than it can, or easier than it does, we get impatient, or we think something is wrong. How come change isn’t happening?

Change is always happening. The trick is to assess what kind of change is happening. Are we becoming more of a person who isn’t getting into shape? Or slightly less so? Is Forsythia blooming or dormant? It’s one or the other.

Over the past five years, I’ve learned some things about us humans through my coaching training. When I first came to the discipline, I saw experienced coaches speak and teach. I thought, I want to be like them — emotionally regulated, with equanimity toward others, holding a broad perspective on things. You can imagine being like this takes time. It takes time because it takes learning and self-discovery.

But I didn’t know that. At first, I tried to mimic this behavior, figuring it was a simple skill I could throw on like a pair of socks. I can’t say this worked too well, which bummed me out. Why can’t I just will myself into equanimity? Slowly my learning and self-discovery showed me it was a matter of transformation that would happen over time.

When I was disappointed that I wasn’t making progress, it was a classic case of mistaken identity. I mistook my inability to will myself into a capable listener as stasis. I didn’t see the subtle changes that were taking place within me. I didn’t see the forsythia in me imperceptibly pushing yellow out into the world.

It takes patience and awareness to keep tabs on Forsythia. I don’t have the bandwidth to sit around watching her push her buds. I often don’t have the awareness either. If I were a botanist whose job it was to watch this process, then yes, I’d know day by day how things were going. It’d be my observational duty to keep an eye on progress.

But I’m not a botanist, so I don’t keep tabs. Therefore, I’m pleasantly surprised when I open the curtains to see Forsythia in all her glory, but bummed out when my transformation doesn’t pop out overnight.

You can see the gaping hole here.

I don’t realize how long it takes Forsythia to change. Or how tedious the process.

So, what to do? For me, I had to figure out ways to make the wait easier and notice change when it happened.

Put another way — when we take a road trip, the kids in the backseat need something to play with and nudges to look out the window.

Otherwise: “Are we there yet?”

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Right now, I’m sitting outside with Kitten the Cat. She’s my aging pet in the small Amazon box lined with her blanket at my side. It’s the first warm day of the season we can be out here for a writing sprint together. I’m babbling about forsythia as Kitten sleeps and transitions happen right under our noses. They’re everywhere, including within.

Since I’m outside, I see Forsythia and I call over to her.

Forsythia! How you been, girl?

She doesn’t answer because she’s made of xylem cells — a vascular tissue that transports nutrients from roots to leaves. She has no central nervous system or mouth. But if you think she doesn’t care about my question, you’re wrong. She blushes in her hallmark yellowness.

You looking good, Forsythia. Nice and yellow.

I know this look she’s giving me. She’s trying to tell me it’s like this every year, like clockwork. It was quite the road trip to get the xylem to do its thing, her petals seem to say, so thanks for noticing.

Are you glad you’re in bloom, Forsythia?

Oh, yes, her branches imply. It’s what makes her Forsythia.

Meanwhile, Kitten sleeps her way closer to death at my feet as I write all this down because, in part, this writing thing is what makes me who I am these days. It takes time and effort, and it’s been a slow transformation, but this road trip has been worth it.

Life transitions on.

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Hope you're doing well, friends.