What does the brink of failure look like?

Standing on the edge of my lavender garden feels like staring into the abyss of why did I try? I enjoyed a respectable harvest this spring and felt encouraged that less plants perished from the winter. Weeks of spring melted into torrential rains of summer. Our drought last year was over. We had an extraordinary +5” of rain and lavender doesn’t like wet feet. 

The first indicator came when two rows of plush, healthy plants turned to brown sticks in a week, then a few more plants gave up. What once promised to give me a bounty of relaxation and a retirement income now failed in front of me.

Grief’s denial works on my instinct to go into ostrich mode, to take the child's approach of if I can't see you, then you don't exist. But failure waited for me to notice. Unless I’m saving an astronaut from sling shotting past the moon, failure is definitely an option. 

As a society, we put a negative stigma on failure. The fear that comes with this “f” word is enough to cripple any perfectionist from even starting. Many talented students have chosen to wear the embarrassment of not completing the task because they were afraid they couldn't do it perfectly. I've seen that many times. In class, we talked about the role of failure as a natural and healthy process to get us to a stronger and happier place in life. The idea was to take the sting away. The reality still hurts and exists in the pain of saying I didn't win this one.

Trying to apply what I teach, I've pondered how to navigate this arena. I still don't look at my lavender, but I'm accepting that there's a life lesson in here somewhere. Three steps that I’m learning from this brink are simple and in my control.

1. Understand what part I played in the failing. I do not have any control over the weather, but I did have control over how well I prepped the ground before planting. No amount of heart can overcome a poor foundation. That’s on me. I discovered this when analyzing why one of my gardens flourished and this did not.

2. Decide how much repair is worth it and make a plan to correct mistakes. I will not just throw a thousand dollars of plants at this problem next spring. I need to address the soil first and work the ground to be stronger, then get a few of the varieties of lavender that I enjoyed. I think maybe twelve will be good. 

3. Ask for help and listen. This is the hardest part of falling down, but we belong together and are connected with each other. My daughter reminds me to take a step back, reevaluate and see what comes into focus. She's right, time is a tool, not an enemy. By asking for help, I am redefining my understanding of control. Failure is all about losing an unhealthy sense of control, the control that is attached to pride. Taking responsibility for what I can influence is a healthy sense of control.

   
   

   Because I’ve stood on that brink and wiggled my toes over the edge, I am discovering the grit inside waiting to grow. I'm stronger than I thought. With a little self-reflection and problem solving, I can work within this failure, looking forward to what my next challenge will be.