Wilting

A dozen sweet potato vines cower from the impending noontime sun, limp and wilted in their new bed. It's not their fault. Yesterday, I ripped them from their happy, crowded existence in Bed #2, pulled them apart and replanted them in Bed #14. It's for their own good. But they don't realize it yet.

When the vines arrived from the mail order nursery, in late May, I thought they were dead. I registered a complaint with the Customer Service Department. The Customer Service Associate assured me that people often mistakenly believed the vines were DOA (dead on arrival) but that they would perk up after I planted them. She even went so far as to suggest that I prune the dead leaves off and plant only the stubs of the plants.

I didn't prune and there was no time for intensive care for my sad sweet potato slips. So I did some triage: dug a small hole in Bed 2, stuck the dying roots in the ground and patted soil around them. It's calling "heeling in," a temporary solution used to care for plants until I can get them in their proper place.

A month later, half the plants had taken root, started spreading vines along the top of the soil and were anchoring new rootlets. Heck, if they were interested in growing, I might as well given them some room to do so. Bed #14 beckoned.

Now, the plants are tender and vulnerable. I'll have to water twice a day for a week or so, making it easy for their tattered roots to take up moisture. Eventually, the roots will gingerly anchor themselves in this strange new soil and begin to move forward.

The plants would have grown in Bed #2, too. But their growth would have been limited; they would have fought for space and nutrients. They never would have lived up to their full potential.

I emphathize with those wilty vines. I've been there, floundering in unfamiliar territory, certain that I'd made a mistake. And then, I'd discover that the discomfort transformed into greater joy than I'd ever experienced in my safe secure nest. There really IS a bigger picture, usually invisible to me. So I can trust that things will turn out just the way they are supposed to. Perfectly, in fact. Discomfort or no.

Next time I bump into the messy chaos of my own confusion and fear, I'll take a tip from my sweet potato vines. Give them some extra water for a while, let them regroup and they'll grow wild and wonderful. So will I.