it felt more manageable that way

My mind told me I didn’t need to buy it.
That it was unnecessary.

Which, in this economy, made it the most necessary. So that’s how I ended up buying an overpriced basil plant from the grocery store, despite my track record of never keeping a plant alive. I once let a cactus die… a cactus.

Needless to say, I’m not exactly the type of person you’d expect to see starting a garden. I can barely remember to drink enough water myself, so my plants don’t stand much of a chance.

This is why my husband and I have an unspoken agreement: I buy the plants, and he keeps them alive. But this time felt different.

There was this small nudge to take care of it myself, which of course turned into me deciding it needed a better pot, a more aesthetic pot, because apparently that matters. And if you’ve ever moved from one home to another, you know it’s never as simple as it sounds.

There was dirt everywhere, my girl lost a few leaves, and for a second it looked like I actually made things worse. Yet, I was oddly proud of myself.

There was something about getting my hands dirty that felt a little ceremonial. Like an invitation to slow down and actually be there for it. The next morning, I was fully expecting my husband to acknowledge my efforts. Instead, he looks at it and goes, “why didn’t you put it in a bigger pot so it has more room to grow?”

The audacity on this man.

My first thought was to throw my shoe at him. My second thought was… oh shit, why didn’t I? I had a bigger pot sitting right there, and I still chose the smaller one. In hindsight, it felt easier, more manageable, less work. Like something I could handle.

And because my mind won’t quiet down until it’s turned something small into a whole thing, I couldn’t just end it with “oh, I’ll just get a bigger pot.” Because I’ve learned if you sit with something long enough, it stops being what you thought.

It reminds me of the Rumi quote, what you seek is seeking you.

Life always feels like that to me, like there’s always something in the moment trying to meet us, but you have to be willing to stay long enough to notice it.

So sure, it’s just a pot.
But how often do we do that?
Avoid taking up space?

How often do we stick to what’s familiar and what we know? What feels comfortable, while wanting something different? How often do we try and keep things contained?

Stay within the lines?
Avoid the messy parts?

How often do we look at something for what it is right now, instead of it’s infinite possibilities for expansion? And if I can do that to something as simple as a plant… where else am I doing it without even realizing?

I left that moment with more questions than answers. But lately, that feels like the point. I spend so much time thinking there’s something to figure out, like there’s a right answer waiting if I just think hard enough. But the more I pay attention, the more it feels like the answers aren’t the thing, the questions are.

Like… Where am I choosing what’s familiar instead of what’s possible?

Where am I keeping myself in something small because it feels easier to manage?

Where could I take up more space, even if it’s messier than I’d like?

What might be trying to grow, even if it looks like I’m getting it wrong at first?

I don’t know if I have the answers yet. But I think I’m starting to ask better questions.
And maybe that’s enough for now. Just noticing where something could have more room, and letting yourself pause there for a second and breathe.

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If you’re here reading this, thank you.
It means more than you know.