When Quiet Turns to Comfort

Drowning in Comfort

In late July, my friend gifted me a hanging terrarium for my birthday. It had two slim, rectangular wooden tiers with small holes cut into each end. A thick piece of twine was strung through the top tier, cascaded through the bottom tier, and ended in a secure knot on either end.

This singular piece of twine created a triangle at the top so that the planter could be hung from anywhere. In addition to the two small twine holes, four larger holes were carved into each tier at equal widths apart. The individual holes held transparent glass tubes—perfect for flower buds and stem cuttings, which my friend had graciously given me from her garden.

I carefully hung the planter over the locking latch above my kitchen sink window. The glass tubes, freely suspended in the air, clinked softly against the window pane as I filled them with water. When the tubes were three-quarters of the way full, I propagated the cuttings, gently dropping them into their new homes. Fragrant chocolate mint, earthy basil, and fresh sweet mint peppered my window pane with gorgeous hues of green.

I loved how much life they brought to that little nook of the room. On clear mornings, if I woke up at just the right time, I could catch a handful of sunbeams bursting through the small kitchen window. They danced through the translucent tubes, angelically illuminating each stem. Those brilliant rays became paint brushes, coating each fragrant leaf with a fresher, more vibrant shade of green.

After a few short weeks, thin white whisps began to appear at the base of the herbs. Soon, each cutting contained at least a dozen roots protruding from various parts of the stem, eagerly lengthening, wanting to be the first to kiss the bottom of the glass. As the roots wafted effortlessly through the water, it was as if the stems had collectively exhaled the life inside of them.

I found myself stopping to admire the herbs throughout the day. Something about the way the roots danced freely in the water. Or how the greens brightened even the dreariest of days. Maybe it was their invigorating scent. I don’t know, but I was in awe, privileged to be a witness of such beauty.

And so, I kept them just as they were.

As more weeks passed, I noticed the roots had become so long and numerous that they entangled each other, remaining motionless in the water. The basil had grown so wide that its leaves nudged the mint’s, and the mint had grown so tall that the bottom tier cuttings now reached the top.

I’ll plant them tomorrow, or next week, I thought to myself. Yet weeks passed, and there they hung, suspended against the window sill— as beautiful as ever.

But not for long.

After months of being admired, their roots began to dull to a dirty brown. Their leaves loosened, gently fluttering into the sink below, waving one last goodbye. Their stems slumped, bowing in gratitude like a cast of actors at curtain call.  

This summer, an unexpected event quickly spiraled into a painfully anxious season, a knee-deep valley I wasn’t prepared to wade through. Quiet was no longer something I desired but desperately needed, so I took a step back.

But as the days gave way to weeks and weeks gave way to months, I stepped back over and over again until I no longer recognized where I was. Soon, my quiet-seeking turned to comfort-seeking. Things that once brought me joy now felt irrelevant. I kept myself small, hidden away from anything and anyone that might disturb the tiny semblance of peace I was clinging to.  

Do you know what happens when you leave most propagated plants in water for too long? Their roots remain thin and fragile because they have easy access to one thing they seek— water. The plant will never grow to its full potential if it remains where it is. In fact, what allowed it to thrive for a time, will be a catalyst in its demise. A prolonged overabundance of stagnant water and lack of nutrients will cause the roots, and eventually the plant itself, to rot.

Sometimes life can leave us disoriented, like a cutting away of sorts. We seek to submerge ourselves in comfort when everything around us feels like chaos, and there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s even necessary— but only for a time.

My planter still hangs in that little kitchen window, empty for now. A gentle yet sobering reminder of the decision we must all make when the unexpected forces us to grow new roots: Drown them in comfort or plant them in courage.

If you enjoyed this blog post, I think you’ll love The Dark Side of Perfectionism. After years of perfectionism plaguing my life, I realized that this once-revered trait had never been something to be admired. Something needed to change— and fast.