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Lessons from a tulip field
One year, after months of Seattle rain, a single sunny day emerged mid-spring. So, like many other Washingtonians do, I headed out to the beautiful Skagit Valley to enjoy a day of photographing and wandering through its fields of tulip and daffodil blooms; a delightful annual pilgrimage!
The fields transform into acres of brilliant color for a few short weeks in April, which gladdens many hearts and signals the end of winter. Around that time, local newspaper front pages trumpet, “Peak Weekend!” with great urgency.
Driving up over a familiar rise that day, giddy with photo-op anticipation, I experienced a visual shock—nothing but brown dirt clods as far as the eye could see. I’d chosen a day too far past that “peak”—the fields had already been plowed under.
I understood the process. The fields are cut and plowed under every year, even before the flowers are finished blooming. The bulbs are then left undisturbed in the ground for a couple of months before being harvested between late May and August. After bulb harvest, the soil sits quietly, regenerating in order to best nurture future bulbs and flowers alike. For most of the year, it looks like nothing significant is happening until the following April.
It’s always difficult to predict how long the growing season will last, but I’d never before missed the floral feast so completely! A surprising sadness settled over me. I’d just wanted that sweet, definitive glimpse of spring.
I decided to park the car and listen prayerfully for some idea that might lift my spirits. Soon, a loved passage from Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures by Mary Baker Eddy came quietly to thought: “Desire is prayer; and no loss can occur from trusting God with our desires, that they may be moulded and exalted before they take form in words and in deeds” (p. 1 ).
The first portion of that sentence had always been a comforting assurance for me. However, I hadn’t previously given quite as much thought to the second part: “… that they may be moulded and exalted before they take form in words and in deeds.”
I noted the word before, knowing some careful nurturing must precede any good harvest. I pondered the importance of the effort and expectation we put into moulding and exalting—spiritualizing—our desires, which then directly affects the subsequent bloom, or healing resolution, resulting from prayer.
Times of struggle can seem dark and unproductive, like looking sadly over a field of dull dirt clods. But there in the car, I gently began to realize just how precious—how necessary—what I’d previously called “brown dirt” seasons really are. The quiet, nurturing activity of fertilization helps soil bring about the vigor of strong bulbs (ideas), which, in turn, proportionately affects the brilliance of the following season’s visual bloom (healing).
Consequently, I now cherish the significance of those quieter seasons, be they expressed as fallow tulip fields or as personal challenges of any nature. In addition, I am valuing the process of “soil preparation” every bit as much as the resulting bursts of color. Now that’s something to celebrate!
—Nancy Martin, Kent, Washington, US