At the start of the year, I believe we were all relieved to start a new year, eager to put 2020 behind us. I reflected on how much my life had changed and how much I’ve grown through the pain and the difficulty of the last year. By Spring’s arrival, I thought I had arrived at a place of peace and acceptance. I found myself astounded with great news that would take my art to the next level. Then almost immediately, I was gutted by the shooting of six Asian-American women that would finally give hate crimes against Asian-Americans national and global attention. I had growth one second and then I was cut down the next.

In Tagalog, tumubo means to grow. When a plant first sprouts, it breaks through the hard shell of the seed and the muddy soil, almost simultaneously. Once it’s above ground, its will to grow doesn’t end there, and neither does the hardship. Similarly, after pushing  through our pain and suffering, we never come to a place of arrival. We’re constantly evolving. Like my Monstera, who despite being out of its Philippine jungle habitat and now finds itself in a 5 inch diameter pink pot, continues to stretch and stretch until it gets the light it needs. And even when it reaches the light, it won’t stop there because it is not in its nature to stop. Tumubo.

This spring, as I reflect on tumubo, I think of resiliency. I see it in the tulips who must endure harsh winters to become vibrant blooms. I see it in the dogwoods who go on thriving even after their blooms have gone, because they know they will bloom again. 

Yesterday, I did a Calm meditation with Tamara Levitt who spoke of the metaphor, “No mud, no lotus.” The lotus begins its life in the muddy water below the surface of a pond or marsh. Gradually the pod pushes through the murky darkness reaching up toward the surface rippling above. In time it rises up from the water, unfurls its petals to the sun and the flower’s vibrant beauty is revealed. And just as the lotus must push through the muddy darkness before it can bloom, we must often push through our suffering in order to grow and find peace.

It can be difficult to see growth in oneself. Perhaps you feel as if the waters you must reach through are too murky and deep for you to reach your surface. That’s what it feels for me, but in moments of stillness I feel in my gut that facing my pain means that I am growing. Tumubo. This quarter, we’ll explore resilience as we celebrate Asian-American and Pacific Islander Heritage Month, and discuss the power of nature in nurturing our mental health as we enter summer.  Wishing you all happiness and resilience!

Xoxo,

Victoria-Riza