Guest Post with Andrea Glenn: Try Growing Flowers Without Dirt

I was asked to write this post two years ago. I currently have three different versions of this story saved on my desktop. Each deeply meaningful, reflective, and inspirational, yet none of these have I been able to share.  To each story I will read and reflect, but there are conflicts within me, holding me back.

My self-talk sounds a little bit like this:

 "These aren’t good enough."

"I need to proof read one more time."

"No, that version is too dark. Too deep. These people really don’t deserve to be exposed to what’s in my head."

Then there is the one that hurts the most. The only one I should listen to. The one that says, "That is not your story."

My story is this: I suffer with depression. This September was the ten year anniversary of my first date with depression. For those of you who do not understand depression and how one cannot just "get out of it," let me explain. Depression is a bad boyfriend. He makes you feel unique. He is warm and comforting. He understands you like no one else and with him you feel at home. By the time you can look up and see that he isn’t good for you, your life has become so intertwined with him that the fight to leave is more exhausting and intimidating than the ability to deal with it and keep going. You know you are strong, you can handle it. So you stay.

I don’t choose to be depressed. Nothing historically life changing has happened to make it acceptable to be depressed. I haven’t lost a child. I haven’t lost a parent. I haven’t experienced a traumatic event. There is no medical reason to be depressed, I just am. I try daily to view inside myself to see if I can pinpoint the cause. I think for me, my depression stems from being a creative...from knowing that I feel and see the world differently. With that, there is also a burden: The burden of knowing I should share the way I see the world, yet feeling so vulnerable when I do.

So, in being true to myself, and at risk of feeling judged, I would like to share a story.

One fall I was given a box of buttercup bulbs. Flowers are something I love. I can always judge the level of darkness I have by my willingness to go outside and dig in the dirt. I love dirt. I love the smell, and I love planting flowers. I love that something beautiful can grow from something ugly, dirty, and unwanted like dirt. When I cannot motivate myself to plant something, I know the darkness is bad. Buttercups have always been a symbol for me, too. I would begin to look for them at the end of winter as they signified a new beginning and an end to the cold, to the deadness of winter, to the darkness. To the end of a depression of sorts, and so I knew them well.    And so yes, because of my current state,The box of bulbs lived on the back porch, unattended for two weeks… maybe more. I’m not sure. The box was there long enough that the cat decided to turn it in to a bed, and the bulbs were sprouting from his body heat. Finally, out of respect of the sweet soul who gifted me with them, I stepped out of my home, and I reluctantly started planting.

I set across our yard carefully selecting the different areas where I wanted the buttercups to make an appearance. Around the mailbox, the flower beds, the rusty old pump house.  I took the time to select a spot, dig a hole, and plant each bulb. The task took several hours. For a while, I was beginning to think the box was bottomless. I planted the last of the bulbs around the chicken coop, then made my way back inside. I was ready to melt back into my darkness like the bulbs, tucked away under the earth, in their own little cold, dark world...To be forgotten.

The following spring was a hard one. I was still in a depression at that time, but I was working my way out. I knew I would be getting busy with work soon. The sun would start shining again, and that would be better. Things were looking up, but that particular spring things were a little harder than usual. I went to the mailbox one day, and I saw that the bulbs I had reluctantly planted in the fall were starting to break ground.

I felt joy.

My message here is this. Depression is like dirt. We don’t want anyone to walk into our home and see it. We are embarrassed by it. We try our best to sweep it up and throw it out the door, only for it to make its appearance again tomorrow. However, dirt has a purpose. It has a place. From dirt can grow the most beautiful things that can cultivate joy and hope.

I am tired of trying to sweep up the depression. There is far too much inside me that can bring joy and beauty to the world. Today I choose to tell my story and allow those bulbs that have been dormant inside of me to grow.

My hope is this: I hope that if you are reading this today and you are coming from a place that is blessed with a little more darkness than others, I hope that you can learn to cultivate it. Water it. Let the light in. Go outside. Dance, sing, be free and love yourself. Create your art, sing songs, take the time to nurture your soul while you are in that darkness. 

Spring will come, I promise. 

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Guest Post with Andrea Glenn: Try Growing Flowers Without Dirt