The hostas have grown. Eight new leaves on the one I thought might not survive. Some hostas didn't make it as the bunnies and squirrels ate them...I have been thinking about what it means that I almost told that story as a failure story.
Almost said: I planted them wrong. A few got eaten along the way. Almost said: too late in the season. Almost said: some things just don't take. Instead I stayed. I tended. I waited. I asked friends for help on what to do. Now I have to admit the story was never about the plants. It was about learning that I am someone who stays. That I am someone who tends past the wilting. Who trusts what she cannot yet see. Who returns, not because the conditions are perfect, but because the work is mine, and mine is worth returning to. This fall, I am planting that story deeper than the roots. I am letting it become what I believe about myself.
We started something in June. We tended it through the summer. And now it is fall, and the beds are not quite what we thought, but they are ours, and the roots have gone deep, and the story of these plants, your plants and mine, is a story I want us to carry into the next season.
What you planted this spring is not just in the ground. It is in you. Honor it. Name it. Write its next paragraph.
AFFIRMATION
"I am not the sum of what happened to me. I am the author of what I make of it. My story is still being written. I hold the pen with both hands — honoring what was, and opening to what is next." THE PRACTICE:
This practice moves in three stages. Give yourself an unhurried hour, your journal, and if possible, a quiet that feels like fall.
The harvest inventory: honor what was. Before you analyze or reframe anything, simply witness the year. Divide a page into two columns. On the left: what grew: the things you tended that took root, the moments of genuine becoming, the small and large victories that perhaps you haven't fully claimed. On the right: what didn't: the seeds that didn't germinate, the efforts that stalled, the things that were harder than you expected. Do not rush this. Linger with both columns equally. Both deserve your full attention before we move on.
The story audit: notice the arc you're telling. Look at the right column, the things that didn't grow, the hard chapters. Choose one. Now honestly ask: what story am I currently telling about this? Write it down exactly as you would say it to a trusted friend. Don't edit it into something prettier; write the actual story you tell. Then look at it and ask: is this a contamination sequence or a redemption sequence? Is this a story that closes or a story that opens? Is this the end of the chapter, or one sentence in the middle of a longer paragraph?
The new paragraph: pick up the pen. Now write a new paragraph. Not a rewrite of what happened; that would be dishonest, and honesty is the foundation. But a new paragraph, the one that comes after the hard part. The paragraph that begins: "And what I came to understand from that was..." or "What I didn't know then, that I know now, is..." or simply: "The person I became on the other side of that is someone who..." You are not erasing the difficult sentence. You are writing the next one. That is the whole practice. That is the whole art.
If you're not sure where to begin, begin here. Use any of these as the first line of your new paragraph. Write without stopping for five minutes. Do not read back until you've finished. "The version of me who went through that learned something I couldn't have learned any other way, which is..."
"I used to tell this story as a story about loss. What I see now is that it was also a story about..."
"The person I am becoming, the one I can feel taking shape this fall, is someone who..."
"If I gave myself permission to write the next chapter with full authorship, it would begin..."
Let me know how it goes. What insights did you have?
Take Care, Dear Reader. This season is yours. Julie Founder, Empower Possible
Resources: https://psychology.northwestern.edu/people/faculty/core/profiles/dan-mcadams.html
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