“Grief can be the garden of compassion. If you keep your heart open through everything, your pain can become your greatest ally in your life’s search for love and wisdom.” – Rumi

When I pick a word for the year, I’m never 100% sure how it’s going to turn out. Of course, I have hopes, goals and plans, but there are often surprises along the way.

I think it’s fair to say my word for 2020 – flourish – looks entirely different than how I imagined it would. I wanted this to be a year of sowing and reaping, of pruning dying vines and allowing new growth. I didn’t realize that one-third of the way through this year, it would mean doing all of that in the middle of a global pandemic.

Instead of travel, there is stillness. Instead of hosting and gathering, there is isolation and space for spiritual reflection. Instead of pruning little areas here and there, the pruning comes swiftly and in giant swaths of grief.

And yet, in many ways, flourish has retained its essence despite, and also because of our new normal.

It has meant acceptance and joy in the midst of my tragic circumstances. It has meant putting myself out there to fail and learn. It has meant being open to what is and what’s to come.

My words for the year adapt and change even in non-COVID times. So now the question becomes: will I let flourish do the same? Will I still be the person I said I would? Can I continue the journey of self discovery anyway? Will I be brave not perfect with my word and my year?

It is a test, and I, its reluctant student.

I want the answer to be yes. Because flourish, like every word and every year, is and will be messy and gorgeous and tragic and triumphant. But it’s mine and I claim it as such. I know I am already flourishing – it’s just with different seeds and unknown crops.

[Photo: a gardenia plant gifted to me by dear friends after my dad’s death. One of the surprises of this time – I’m learning (and enjoying) to keep plants alive. Oh the irony!]