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“A tree that is unbending is easily broken.”
Lao Tzu

I don’t know if it’s the sound or the sight of them that I love most. From my vantage point, the graceful palms dance to the blustery winds outside the windows. High atop the fourth floor of our apartment we’re eye level to a glistening circle of these emerald beauties swaying from each view. The shushhhhing symphonies of palm fronds and wind lull me into a state of calmness. Boo and Scout curl into quiet cat-atonia next to me as we each watch and listen to the palms leaning and bending in tune to the gusts of wind playing around them. Amazing, I find myself wondering. That they don’t break in half.

What is it about them that makes each so malleable yet so strong? Why don’t they crack from such air born pummeling time and time again? “It’s their flexibility that contributes to their strength,” Ted Safford, Certified Arborist, explains.

The Nature Teacher lesson resonated loud and clear. If palms were rigid and unyielding in structure they would easily be felled from wild winds, “…but,” continues Safford, “…you see palm trees blowing and bending in hurricanes and horrific storms—and yes, some are downed by them, but in all my 35 years of maintaining palms I’ve never seen one break.”

In fact, research has proven that when palm trees are bent to such a degree that they’re practically parallel to the ground from the challenging gusts, their root system actually gets stronger, initiating new opportunities for growth.

I learned that palm trees aren’t really trees at all, but rather from the family of flowering plants—the only order of the monocots called “Arecales.” Ted admits his great affection for palms is not only because of their supple acquiescence to treacherous weather, but he loves their longitudinal simplicity. They don’t have added “baggage”—heavy branches and leaves—to weigh them down. Palms lose their wind-resistant leaves a lot faster than trees lose their branches. Once the leaves are gone in a storm there isn’t much left to catch the wind.

Palm trees also have an extremely flexible, fibrous trunk and a shallow-yet-regenerative root system as compared to a much sturdier tree such as an oak. This bendy ability gives the palm true mobility and wind-sway. The shallow, thinner roots make it easier for the palm to not only fall over rather than snap in half, but to rebuild a root structure yet again.

My goal now is to be more “palm like” in my approach to life. This is something that my Tai Chi teachers taught me as well. When one is coming at you in a mighty attack and you stand rigid, you are easily pushed over. But when you relax your shoulders and ever so slightly move with the punch, the attacker is the one who falls. I’ve seen this happen over and over again in class.

So I must remember all of these lessons: to face adversity, and the inevitable body slams of surprises, setbacks, losses, etc., with the same grace and majesty of a palm tree and a Tai Chi Master. To not stand rigid in fear and ultimately crack under pressure, but rather move in an inner dance-like sway to the wild winds of change. To not be blown-away by situational storms, but do all I can to relax into them and let my flexibility—an acceptance of life the way it is not the way I wish it to be—ultimately be my strength.

“The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough.”
Rabindranath Tagore

Kaio’s mama shouted for us to enjoy the delicate beauty of the little butterfly before it flew away.  My five-year-old grandson, Kaio, and I ran over to witness the tiny beauty at our feet. None of us breathed as we watched her flap her wings and begin to take off and then—and then she fluttered, swayed, and looped-delooped lopsided back-down to earth. Oh! We gasped in unison. Something was terribly wrong. Kaio looked at her closer. “Oh no, Nana! I see the problem. She’s broken. There’s a hole in her wings. She’s hurt. I don’t think she can fly!” Instantly our joy in her jewel-like splendor dissolved into sorrow. Then action. “Nana, butterflies like nectar!” I soaked a bit of bread with honey. But the stickiness looked like it was going to glue her to a fast—albeit, sweet—denouement. “I know!” Kaio brightened. “Flowers!!!” He and I ran to gather as many flowers as we could find and he brought them to her. She would rally, show a spirited attempt to climb upon them and then again try to fly away only to find herself leveled, staggering to the earth far below her vertical goals of sky and tree tops and clouds.

Kaio and I ran along beside her. We placed her in a generous earthen pot and filled it with more flowers, hoping she would find solace in a safe garden for her final resting place. But no. She again would try again and again to fly and fall and lift and topple over and over again. Kaio named her “Flower” and I marveled at her strong will to live even though everything about her was ragged and growing ever more weary. Her strength was ebbing. “Nana, I think she’s going to die…” And we talked about how fierce she was in her fight for life. We worried that she might be grabbed up by a bird, or the dog might inadvertently step on her. So once again we scooped her up and placed her in a quiet grove of bushes and brought her a tiny cup of passion fruit juice surrounded by more flowers and there she rested. Exhausted. Probably from us carrying her about too much. In time, Kaio was off playing, his work with “Flower” was over. Somehow I knew that he knew there was not much more he could do for her and moved on.

But I couldn’t leave her side. I watched as she tried to drink the sweet liquid while her wings opened and closed slower and slower. In my heart I could almost feel the aching strains of Puccini’s exquisite opera, Madama Butterfly. In moments, breaths, her wings finally closed together as if in prayer transforming her into what looked like a minuscule Japanese origami—at last falling over on her side nestling against the flowers.

I guess the greatest lesson that beautiful little Nature Teacher taught me was that life is experienced in moments…some longer, some briefer, but all moments. We can’t hold on to them. We each have our own paths, our own time limits. And we must live with all our might until our time is up. Until then, we mustn’t give up. That little butterfly was determined to fly until she simply couldn’t any more. I loved that about her. All we can do is offer each other loving support—maybe even a flower or two—moment-to-moment. And learn from the wisdom of a child. At best, when someone beloved close to us dies—even if it’s a gentle butterfly—we must still live and then move on and play enjoying the remaining sunshine of the day…

I had to grab my camera and preserve the beauty of that extraordinary rose growing right smack in the midst of massive river rocks circling in every direction. There it was seemingly oblivious to its bouldery surroundings and—from my point of view—kinda taking it all for granite. In fact the rose was all the more beautiful because of the counterpoint of its brown/grey backdrop. One gorgeous bloom bobbing its head in the soft breeze, with evidence of a few more buds about to make their debut.

The rocky-rose reminded me of a story a woman told me about the hearty tomato plant that was growing right in the middle of her driveway—she had no idea how it got there or how in the world it was doing so well without any care. It just “planted” itself there and grew amazingly unexpected tomatoes. So it seemed this rose was doing its thing—albeit nurtured by attentive gardeners—but the affect was similar. It made you stop and smell the roses amidst the rocks and it made you just that much happier because of the experience. Nature Teachers do that. They remind you that even in the rockiest situations we’re all capable of finding our place in the sun. If we don’t let our surroundings or others’ prickly perspectives stop us from declaring our right to be who we are, we can rock `n roll just about anywhere!

Periodically along my daily walks I find one lying on the path. Knocked off from its stem, separated from the rest of its floral family, a singular flower pod awaits its final ending. Kicked aside or simply left to wither in the hot sun it rests vulnerable and alone. I rarely can resist gathering up the little pod and taking it back with me, plopping it into a cool glass of water. There within minutes I watch as it begins to slowly open—as if in surprise, having already accepted its doom and discovering there’d been a last-minute recall from its sidewalk sentencing. Petal-by-petal it gathers in the soothing sunshine and fresh water living a glorious last gasp before its closing act.

I am forever awed by such bursts of life for it teaches me much not only about “pod potential,” but something more. This little Nature Teacher helps me see that we each have such strength within us to live and express ourselves—even when all appears hopeless. We might not believe it at the time, but if given a second chance to live, to express ourselves, to climb back up after falling down—even if for a brief moment—our spirit is equipped to rally and make it possible. We are wired to thrive, as we each have the potential to tap into that pocket of vibrant energy tucked inside our cells and bring it forth. We must never give up hope. We are living, breathing pod potentials. In the Sixties we called it “Flower Power.” Today that expression has a whole new meaning for me when I realize how literal it is. Little flower pods have powerful life-forces in them. And so do we.  Bloom on!

As I greet the new day, flinging back blinds and opening windows, letting in the morning light and fresh new morning breath, Boo and Scout seek the first patches of sunshine streaking across the floor. They follow it at the sides of chairs and beds. Across the laptop. Next to the screen door. Filtering onto the carpet. Like mini heat-seekers they pounce on the instant warmth that immediately blisses them into a zen state of ecstazzzzzzzzzz’s. Watching them, I can’t help feeling a twinge of envy at how easily they seem to find what makes them happy and immerse themselves in it without a moment’s hesitation.

Why can’t I be more “cat-like” and let myself enjoy the comforting pleasure of a simple patch of sun—even if for a few minutes? Setting aside all the “shoulds” and “gotta-do’s” and lists upon lists of all that I expect of myself to accomplish from dawn to dusk. How good would it be to just allow myself the decadence of purposelessness? The tingling sensation of simply stretching and curling, rolling and yawning into a lazy clump—grabbing a small piece of early a.m. rays before they vanish from each room into the day like a bride gathering the silken train of her gown. Comfort should be as easy to embrace as the way in which Boo and Scout savor such peaceful purrrrsuits. My two favorite Nature Teachers are teaching me to paws upon the instantaneous joy of self-indulgence—one sunbeam at a time…