how do You root?

The Library of Flowers — Week Two: The Flowers That Remember

How do you root and what do our memories leave growing inside us?

This week on The Write Voice, we wander through memory, identity, healing, and the quiet ways our past continues to shape who we’re becoming. Together, we’ll explore the stories we tell ourselves, the beauty of unseen growth, and why a season that looks like winter may still be doing important work beneath the surface.

And we’re beginning a new tradition: our own Library of Flowers. 🌿

This week, we’re collecting rosemary—a symbol of remembrance and healing. Press a sprig into your journal or tuck it between the pages of a favorite book as a reminder that you can honor where you’ve been without living there forever.

Pour something warm, find a comfortable place, and come sit with me awhile.

One flower. One lesson. One gentle reminder that your story is still unfolding. 🌿🤍

Transcript

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SPEAKER_00 0:14

Hi, and welcome back to The Right Voice. I'm your host Jessica, and I'm so glad you're here. Before we turn another page and we gather another flower, let's discover another little piece of ourselves. Take a deep breath, go ahead. The emails can wait, the dishes can wait, the laundry, the errands, the notifications, they'll all be there in 45 minutes. But just for a little while, come on over to someplace softer. Imagine a little library tucked inside of an old greenhouse, shelves stretching towards the ceiling, books worn soft from years of being loved, fresh flowers gathered in simple glass jars, and the scent of rosemary drifting through the room, sunlight filtering through old windows, leaving little patches of warmth on weathered wooden floors. It's peaceful here. This is a place where we remember that beauty still exists, and life outside these walls have the capacity of becoming kinder. Reading the library of flowers has me thinking a lot about them, seemingly perfect on the outside when actually quite opposite. Flowers navigate the seasons of life. They bloom, they fade, they rest, then somehow they begin again. And I've wondered if that's why we're so drawn to them. They remind us that growing isn't something we do once. It's something we spend our whole lives learning how to do. If we build our capacity to adapt, we evolve, we become kinder, braver, softer, wiser. We add something new to our lives, and we create space for the new additions by letting some things go. One of the ideas that inspired today's conversation is how memories can shape the way that we see ourselves. Have you ever noticed how certain moments seem to stay with us? And I'm not talking about the big milestone moments. I'm talking about the small tiny steps it took to achieve the big makeup of a milestone, the smell of vanilla that instantly reminds you of cookies baking, the sound of an old song playing in the grocery store, a handwritten recipe tucked inside of a cookbook, a library card with your name written in careful handwriting, an old photograph discovered between the pages of a novel. It's remarkable. One small thing activates another season of your life. The memory has a curious way of folding time, and it reminds us that we never really stop caring the people in places that help shape us. So the question stands How are they shaping us today? I once met an elderly woman who volunteered at a botanical garden, and she couldn't have been much taller than the sunflowers that she cared for, yet somehow she seemed to fill every path with warmth. One morning I watched her kneel beside a flower bed that looked, to my untrained eye, completely empty. She smiled as she loosened the soil with her hands and really scrubbed the dirt with her fingers. Curious, I asked, what are you planting? And she laughed and she said, Oh nothing. And I looked around so confused. But you're working so carefully. She brushed a little dirt from her hands and this is what she said. I'm not planting today. I'm remembering. Seeing the question on my face, she continued Last autumn I planted bulbs here. They're still beneath the soil, and most people walk by and think nothing is happening, but I know what's underneath. Then she looked up at me with the kindest, most genuine smile, and I've never forgotten those words. Because how often do we look at ourselves or someone else and assume that because we can't see growth there isn't any? How often do we mistake silent seasons for empty ones? How often do we judge a life by its blossoms while forgetting that roots have their own special work? I've learned that as a collective whole, we're impatient with ourselves. We expect healing to hurry up, we wait for confidence to ride in like shiny armor. We want to understand everything before we've even had time to ask good questions. Nature doesn't hurry. The ocean doesn't rush the tide. Trees don't skip spring because they're eager for summer, and flowers never apologize for taking their time. Growth is always supposed to be slow enough for us to notice it. When was the last time you gave yourself permission to become someone new? Life has a continuous way of shaping us, and there are times we truly believe that we're finished. That who we've been is who we'll always be. I've always been anxious. I've never been creative. I'm just not brave. I'm too old to begin again. Those sentences sound so final as though they've been carved in stone, but what if they're only penciled into the margin? What if they're observations, not conclusions? What if your story still has entire chapters waiting to be written? I think one of the most hopeful things about being human is that we're wonderfully unfinished. There's still room to surprise ourselves, still room to heal. Still room to laugh more easily, still room to discover gifts we didn't know we possessed, still room to become someone who sleeps peacefully after years of restless nights. Still room to learn that tenderness is stronger than fear. Still room to find joy in everyday mornings. And I find that comforting change remains possible. There's an old saying that I've always enjoyed Bloom where you're planted. Although it's great advice, I began wondering if it's incomplete. Before we bloom, we have to root, and rooting isn't a gentle journey. No one applauds roots, no one hangs pictures of roots on their walls, roots grow in hidden places. They stretch through darkness, they search patiently for water, just steady, faithful growth. Life unfolds that way. The conversations that change us most often happen in the rooms that don't require much talking. The faith that carries us through difficult seasons is built one day at a time. Healing doesn't usually arrive like fireworks. More often it arrives like dawn, so gradually that we don't notice the darkness lifting until suddenly we realize we can see again. Maybe that's why I wanted us to spend this time together today. Just become more comfortable with questions that we don't necessarily have the answers to. Questions like what's been slowly growing inside of me over time? Which memories still nourish me? Which stories have I outgrown? What would it look like to become kinder with myself? I don't think those questions demand immediate answers. I think they're meant to be held like a flower tucked into the pages of a favorite book. Press gently between yesterday and tomorrow, waiting to teach us something when we're ready. Let's keep walking, because every beautiful library has another room waiting just beyond the next doorway. And I think this next room may be one of my favorites. But before we close our little library today, I'd love to remind you about something new that we're doing this series. Over the next few weeks, we're going to create our own library of flowers. And each week we'll gather one flower that reminds us of the lesson we've been carrying together. You don't need a perfect garden or even fresh flowers. Just press a bloom inside of a journal. Tuck away a sprig from the grocery store, sketch in the margin of your notebook. Even a photograph you take while you're out for a walk, however you choose to collect it. Let it become a reminder that growth is happening, even when you can't always see it. This week's flower is rosemary. Rosemary has long been associated with remembrance, but today I'd like for us to think about remembrance a little differently. Remember the moments that have shaped you with kindness. Remember the people who believed in you. Remember how far you've already come, and remember that healing often happens so slowly that we don't notice it until one day we realize we're breathing easier. And if there are memories that still ache, hold them gently. They don't have to disappear overnight. They just need a little bit more compassion than criticism. So this week, find that sprig of rosemary and keep it somewhere you'll notice, inside your journal, between the pages of your book, or like me on your kitchen windowsill and press inside the pages of a novel I'm reading. And every time you see it, ask yourself one simple question. What foundational quality has life been growing in me? And with that, who am I becoming? And by the end of this series, I hope that you'll have more than a collection of dried flowers. I hope that you'll have a collection of moments that remind you you're still growing. I'll meet you here next week. Take care.