Bloom Where You Are Planted - Finding Where We Belong, Finding Home - Episode 22

What happens when life keeps uprooting you before your roots have time to grow deep? In this deeply personal episode of Light in the Garden, Lulu reflects on twenty-four moves in twenty-five years, the search for belonging, and the surprising ways we learn to carry “home” within ourselves.

Transcript

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Welcome to Light in the Garden, a soft place to land and breathe, and remember who you truly are. I'm Lulu and this podcast is my offering to you. Here we explore the quiet places where the human and the divine meet, through stories from the road, the lake, where I spend many hours, and the long path of my own becoming. Each episode is simply a companion for your heart. Thank you for joining me today. I'm so very glad you're here. This episode is called Bloom Where You Are Planted. I was born in 1952, just as a major cultural shift was taking place. Families were leaving the old neighborhoods and small towns and moving towards suburban life in search of advancement, opportunity, and stability. Prior to this, many people lived in the same community for their entire lives. Adult children often remained close to aging parents. Roots ran deep. And then began the Great Migration. Few people in my age range still live where they grew up. I sure don't. And initially, at least, I made that choice consciously. I enlisted in the United States Air Force directly after high school with one clear goal in mind get as far away from home unquote as possible. I married a man I met on the base where we were both stationed and we began a family pretty quickly. Once our military obligations were fulfilled, we became like migratory birds moving twenty four times in twenty five years of marriage all over the country. People constantly asked if he was still in the military. Nope. He was simply sliding up and down the career advancement pole. Though honestly there was more sliding down than up. I used to think his pole dancing needed some new moves, and somewhere along the way I began to wonder if we had gained opportunity but lost rootedness. The constant moving was especially difficult on the children. Eventually I made the decision to homeschool because the endless transitions were affecting both their education and their ability to form lasting friendships. Truthfully, we were all living in a state of low grade grief. We made friends, certainly, but over time we became cautious about attachment. Why fully open your heart when experience tells you that another goodbye is probably six months or less away? And the moving took its toll on me too. One year we moved five times in twelve months. I was pregnant during that period, and that particular marathon was left me responsible for nearly all the packing and unpacking. After a while I stopped fully unpacking the boxes altogether. It seemed pointless. I would simply pull out whatever we needed for daily life and leave the rest taped shut, waiting for the next movement move. How does a woman create a home? Not merely a physical space, but an emotional one when pieces of herself are left behind in every rented kitchen and every unfamiliar neighborhood. Each move, especially the ones over which I had absolutely no say, which was all of them, created a deeper wound, one that never had enough time to heal before being reopened again. I became quieter over the years, more guarded, less willing to volunteer or become deeply involved. Where once I had taught Sunday school and served as a Cub Scout leader, eventually I just kept my hand down when volunteers were needed. And then there was the great zoo migration. One time, listen, this is for real. Both our cat and dog gave birth the night before we were scheduled to move. So there I was driving from Tennessee to Florida with two animal mothers, their litters, a pet snake, and a couple of parakeets packed into the car. Honestly, it was kind of wonderful. For one thing, I had the easiest assignment, a child free ride across several states. And for another, compared to the chaos of the moving trucks and house hunting, being a zookeeper felt oddly peaceful. Along the way, dear friends gifted me with plaques that read, Bloom where you are planted, and home is where the heart is. Lovely sentiments, but it's pretty hard to bloom when your roots are constantly being pulled from the soil before they've had any real chance to take hold. Pretty soon we were all exhausted. Well, all except apparently the father of these children. Of course, it was up to me to find the pediatricians and the grocery stores and the pharmacies, the churches, the activities, the piano teachers, the forms, the friendships, and the rhythms of yet another unfamiliar town. He simply had to find his way to work. And then home again. But where exactly was home? Cardboard box cardboard boxes have their own smells. So do moving trucks and motel coffee. I still remember one move to Orlando, the first of several times we would live there. One of my sons became terribly ill while we were in town house hunting. Instead of searching for a home, we spent five days in the hospital where he was diagnosed with acute rheumatic fever. Which meant my ex-husband had to choose the house by himself. This wasn't not an excellent outcome. After we finally moved in, the entire family affectionately called or referred to this as the dirt house. Need I say more? And then something unexpected happened after the marriage dissolved. I stopped moving. For the first time in my adult life, I nested. I planted shrubs. I hung pictures. And I have told my now adult children that I intend to remain in this little house until the end of my days. Maybe home was never a place on a map. Maybe home was the part of me that kept surviving every uprooting. Maybe blooming where you are planted has less to do with geography and more to do with learning how to carry your own soil. An invitation to let this teaching land in your body, not just your mind. I call it life happens where your feet are. Find a comfortable position now, hopefully in a place where you will not be disturbed. A quiet, private place, a place where you can snuggle in. Allow yourself to arrive there. Not five minutes from now. Not tomorrow. Not even in the version of life you imagine might finally feel easier. Just here, just this moment. Take a slow breath in and gently let it go. Again, breathing in and breathing out. So much of life asks us to keep reaching, keep proving, keep searching for the next answer, the next solution, the next version of ourselves. And after a while, the spirit grows tired from all that striving. For now, in these few moments, you don't have to become anything. You do not have to fix your life. You do not have to have clarity. You do not have to know what comes next. You are simply invited to be here. Notice the surface beneath you supporting your body. Notice the quiet rhythm of your breathing. Notice that in this moment nothing is demanding anything from you. And perhaps there is wisdom in learning to soften into the life we already have. Not giving up, not settling, but gently releasing the constant tension of believing we must always be somewhere else before we can finally rest. Take another slow breath in. And imagine now with each exhale, your body becoming just a little heavier, a little softer, a little more at ease. Your shoulders loosening, your jaws softening, your nervous system beginning to understand that it is safe to unclench. There is a quiet place within you that has always existed beneath the noise, beneath the planning, beneath the worry, beneath the endless movement of thought. And you do not have to create that place. You simply return to it. Rest there now for a moment. Perhaps peace is not something far away. Perhaps peace is what remains when we stop arguing with where we are. Take one final deep breath in and slowly let it go. And when you are ready, gently return, bringing with you a little more softness, a little more steadiness, and a little more trust in this moment exactly as it is. Amen. And no mistake. Remember, my dear friends, even in the ordinary moments of your day, there is always light waiting in the garden. So until next time, take good care of yourselves and of each other. And I thank you from the depths of my heart for visiting me today. If you enjoyed this podcast, share it with your friends. And I offer a deep bow to each of you. And finally, if you have found some value here and would like to spend some one-on-one time with me, I offer spiritual companionship, spiritual coaching. Sometimes it really helps to have a steady presence beside you as you listen for your own inner wisdom and find your way forward. Until next time, my friends, take good care of yourself and of each other.