Transplants

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Ninebark, Pear, Ocean Spray, Native Violet — this is a short list of my recent transplants. The Crandall’s blackcurrant that was chunked out and dropped on the edge of our yard during last summer’s leveling of the lot now thrives in a raised bed of its own. With thoughtful care, I’ve moved more than a dozen plants, bushes and trees acclimated to our yard, to better fit our and their needs.

This happens annually at least. The planting that worked last year does not always fit the plan of what’s coming. Uprooting is done with care and hope for more needs met, but through another lens, it could be perceived as violent. Over a decade ago, I moved with my children to the island of Key West, where my then eight-year-old Sam found himself unnerved without friends and family near. Each night, I sang “This Pretty Planet” for hours in the hammock, as I rocked him to sleep.

Change can be hard. We can feel like outsiders in our new homes for some time, if not forever. I am a transplant, generations later, adapting to a continent, embracing the region of my “new” home of almost twenty years here in Oregon. My grandparents were from here, so they shared something of the land and its beings. But that’s very nearly rare. Most of us have set up home far from our roots.

Resting my young plant friends into new soil, my heart opens to the possibility before them. I do not place my attention on worry beyond assessing what I can do to better support them in the change. After that, I look to them with joy and the expectation of their flourishing. And if they wilt, I am right there to assess what is needed and to sing “This Pretty Planet.”

In which ways are you a transplant, and how do you care for others who are transplanted? How hard is it to focus on the vision of well-being when the ride gets bumpy?