Surrendering to Bloom
Sometimes life offers lessons in the most unexpected forms. For me, as 2026 began, it came in the form of a small, hand-grafted weeping pussy willow I named Wilo, only just days ago.
I received Wilo at a gathering called Bloom Again, a housewarming and self-care session that celebrated new beginnings. It was a space to honor healing and the courage it takes to start again—a gentle reminder that growth often unfolds in unexpected places: between laughter, brief conversations with strangers, and quiet moments of reflection. Each guest exchanged a plant with another, a simple act that carried profound meaning.
When the woman next to me handed me Wilo, she read its story aloud:
“The willow bends but does not break. Flexible yet resilient, it reminds us that by yielding to life’s changes, we are shaped for growth and made to flourish.”
At the time, it felt poetic literal, even—but I didn’t yet understand how much I would live it.
At home, Wilo became a gentle presence on my office bookcase, sunlight spilling across its branches—a quiet reminder of patience and trust. I watered it once, and within days, small furry blooms appeared.
By the second week, it was covered in them. Then they began to fall, and I panicked—I thought I had killed the poor plant. The falling away triggered grief, a natural response to loss in that moment. I was reminded that acknowledging grief doesn’t mean we can’t continue to grow—both can be true at the same time.
To my surprise, the falling blooms were not a sign of failure. They were part of Wilo’s natural rhythm. Days later, green leaves appeared where the blooms had fallen. I learned that those soft, furry blooms are called catkins, which left a powdery yellow dust behind—a sign that Wilo is male. Understanding came slowly, one observation at a time. Watching Wilo shed and grow, I began to see how letting go can make room for new life, patience, and quiet trust.
Two days after receiving Wilo, I chose my word for the year: surrender. At first, I had a similar reaction to the word as I did when I saw Wilo’s catkins fall. Wasn’t that word reserved for beginners? Surely it was step one of any process. But the lessons Wilo had already been showing me—release, rhythm, quiet growth—made the word feel less like a goal or a one-time event and more like a companion, a process that unfolds continuously.
Wilo quietly reminds me that life is often about small, steady rhythms: letting go so new life can emerge, trusting what we cannot yet see, and bending without breaking in the face of change. Each day, it offers gentle proof that growth can be quiet, resilience can be soft, and surrender can coexist with courage, grief, and hope all at once.
In this rhythm, the blooms that fall are never lost—they just make room for what comes next. And in watching Wilo, I am learning to sit with that truth, to notice the beauty in each stage, and to trust the unfolding of life quietly, patiently, and with faith.
