Last year for my birthday, I received a beautiful, raised steel planter. Now I could grow vegetables in our courtyard!
I became so excited with the idea that I purchased two more, envisioning a bountiful garden of organic vegetables just outside our front door. These swiveled planters seemed perfect. I could move them to capture light or shade. Plus, being on wheels, they would keep the patio cement pristine, as water could easily escape from the bottom.
In May, I planted lettuce, tomatoes, peppers, strawberries, and Swiss chard. Each evening, my husband and I would wheel the planters inside, protecting them from the cold night air. I watered religiously. Carefully weeding the beds, I then rotated these very heavy planters daily to ensure each received ample sunshine and shade.
Yet, despite my meticulous care, the plants failed to thrive. Let me rephrase that … they didn’t grow … at all. Their leaves yellowed, fell off, making them appear spindly. But what made this even worse, the organic soil combined with the metal from the planter caused stains to appear all over our patio. We’d power wash the marks away, only for them to return the next day.
I’d spent a great deal of money and time on our raised gardens. In fact, every time I looked out the window and saw these planters, my shoulders tightened, and my pulse escalated.
Within a few weeks, my vision of a bountiful harvest quickly became my summer folly.
Frustrated that my gardening attempts were in vain, I shared my story with a woman who is in my functional strength class. When I was done complaining, this lovely lady merely smiled and said two simple words in response … “Fix it.”
At first, I felt a sting. “Fix it?” How was I to do that? I couldn’t make the plants grow, nor could I keep the planters from staining the concrete.
Not wanting to be rude, I smiled back, thanking her for her advice. Still, I had no idea how to implement her counsel.
Once home, I felt the familiar sensation as I looked out the window. Hundreds of dollars wasted! I felt like a complete failure. Never did I have trouble growing vegetables in Pennsylvania. Why was it so damn difficult in Bend?
I spent the rest of the afternoon ruminating on how to fix this problem.
The next day, I called our son, hoping he’d take my withering plants. He’d worked on an organic farm, plus he had a greenhouse in his backyard. No doubt, his thumb was greener than mine. Graciously, he accepted my offer, soon digging out the plants and transporting them to his yard.
Now part of the problem was fixed. The plants had a new home, and I no longer needed to water the empty planters. Our courtyard would be free of dying vegetables and stained cement.
But what was I to do with three large, expensive planters? Each was five feet long and two feet wide.
It’s then, my husband suggested we put them on the edge of our driveway, using them for native grasses. If they stained the driveway, we’d never see it. This seemed like a brilliant idea.
After that, whenever I looked out into our courtyard, my shoulders didn’t rise towards my ears, nor did my heartrate quicken. But there was more to this “fix.” Our driveway didn’t appear so sparse. In fact, the planters added an artist element. We even received several complements from friends.
“Fix it” … said softly with a loving tone, not only inspired me to solve my problem, but it also helped me realize something greater. We hold the key to alter what causes us stress.
This lesson was not about control—I couldn’t make the plants grow or keep the stains from reappearing. This was different. It taught me that I possess the ability to change my situation. If something bothered me, there was a high probability that I could indeed fix it. And it was my responsibility to do so.
While not every situation can be fixed, we can transform much of what bothers us. And when we do, a lightness appears, helping us see how simple resolutions can be.
What about you?
Is something annoying you, causing you stress or anxiety? If so, is there any way you can fix it? If you can, I bet you’ll feel better.
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