As a woman who has had a black thumb forever, and will most likely to the end of time, I am in awe of gardeners; people who know plants, people who understand how to make things grow.
But watching Dorothy, I was equally surprised at how easy it didn't look. And I forgave myself for not being able to do it well.
I couldn't identify well with the gardener, but I understood the flower. I felt perfect in my little plastic pot with holes, and I was comfortable with my roots. I was alone, but I was happy. I didn't need to share my water, or be compared with another.
And then Someone came along and pulled me up and ripped up my secure and intertwined roots and pushed me into a bigger place, in new soil, and surrounded me with other plants. And I felt so brutalized and small.
What I didn't understand is that I would never continue to grow or thrive or flourish in that small plastic pot. I was not being fed. I would eventually die if left there. My beauty would not be seen or appreciated there.
Someone else knew better for me. The uprooting is hard, isn't it? But the final picture changes my entire perspective. The pain of being pushed into another place, is overshadowed by the fact that there is where I will thrive. And the dirt that once suffocated me, feeds me. And the other plants that sometimes even tower above me, only serve to offset my beauty.
There is purpose.
Being planted means being ripped up from what we know. It's not glamorous or comfortable. It's dirty, and scary, and confusing.
Like everything in life that's worth anything. Like Motherhood.