'Tis the season: People date, animals mate and flowers bloom as the days grow longer and the planet springs forward into its annual cycle of birth and renewal.
I found myself enjoying a recent morning digging in the dirt: Pulling-up a worn-out basil plant, then sprinkling a packet of flower seeds over the spot and mixing the soil.
I felt a twinge of sadness for the outgoing plant: Woody and withered, the basil was a faint remnant of the eager sprig I had purchased last autumn and a whisper of the sturdy plant it had become by early winter. Having recently "gone to seed," the basil had spent its last gasps of energy coughing its tiny seeds into the potting mix below, passing to future generations the potential crack at life it had once been granted.
I thought of us in the context of my leafy friend's existence: As people, we tend to long for places we've been, cling to established social circles and wish we were younger. Yet, holding this scraggily plant in hand, I began realizing that our true beauty lies within our abilities to live forward.
We tend to struggle against our circumstances instead of using these situations to propel us: How accomplished we'd feel if we learned from (not yearned for) our pasts; accepting with grace and gratitude where we've been, whom we are and what we still have to give.
As I carried the basil to the compost bin, its unmistakable fragrance filled the air one last time. Perhaps this was its pleasant farewell to the world - its salute to the cycle of life. I imagined the advice this time-honored plant might give us:
A life well-lived creates a good place for another life to grow.
This morning, I watered the clay pot where the basil had resided. I half-wondered which might pop through its soil first - the flowers I had planted or a new generation of basil made possible through the selfless efforts of my leafy teacher. My friend was gone but not forgotten and I had a hunch its impact would live on to experience yet another season.
