The Hundred Year Cactus

At some point when I was in my early twenties, I heard about a plant called the “Hundred Year Cactus.” I don’t recall where I heard about it or any specific details except that this plant supposedly bloomed once every hundred years, but when it did, it was the most beautiful bloom in the desert. These were the days before the Internet, and I had no way of quickly verifying the information; I just accepted it. 

In recent years, I’ve tried to see what I could discover through Google, but what I’ve found bears little resemblance to the story I remember. There’s the saguaro cactus in Arizona which can take a hundred years to fully mature, but its blooms don’t wait that long. Then there is the agave, often called the “century plant.” It has been said to only bloom after 100 years, but that’s a fable. Agaves do take a long time to bloom but can do so in as early as 10 years in a hot climate, or up to 25 or 30 years in a cooler climate. 

But this isn’t really about a cactus. In fact, whether or not what I read was true or whether or not I actually read what I think I read doesn’t really matter.  I could have dreamed it. None of that changes the fact that I believed I read about this cactus that blooms only after a hundred years and the blooms were worth the wait. And none of that changes the fact that this story, whether real or exaggerated or completely fabricated, resonated with me on such a level that I still remember it thirty years later. 

During the decade or so after I did or did not read this true or untrue statement about a cactus that may or may not exist, I told the story many times as situations called for it. And I would always say, “I’m the hundred-year cactus.  It’s going to take me a while to bloom, but, baby, when I do, it will be worth it.” I said it so many times that it started to qualify as a mantra. 

Some might say that I affirmed my way into a late-blooming life. I think, rather, that I relieved some of the stress native to the first decade or so of adulthood that compels us to chase success and achievement. Instead, I went with the flow. I had a lot of jobs during that time, bad ones and good ones, embarrassing ones and even somewhat impressive ones. I let life lead and stepped into opportunities as they presented themselves but didn’t actively pursue them. One of those opportunities involved going back to college as a 29-year-old sophomore. For a late bloomer, 29 is a perfect age for college. 

After college and grad school, I started teaching, and I wondered then if this was the blooming. In a way, it might have been, at least the best blooming available at the time. 

But I was still plowing the earth and planting seeds and fertilizing and watering as well. And the cool thing is that after you plow and plant and water, the blooming is out of your hands.  Nature just has to take its course. 

During this past year, many years after I first heard or misheard the cactus story, and many years after graduate school and the start of my teaching career, I started a Tik Tok account that has 60,000 followers; started a podcast which has a few listeners – the most important of whom is listening right now, of course; became the interim minister at an interfaith, affirming, inclusive church; started an interfaith seminary program; and most recently, I’ve been invited to be the commencement speaker at my college’s graduation, something that held the number one spot — I am not exaggerating — on my bucket list.  In addition, I’ve recently received two speaking invitations that would qualify as a definite leveling up from my previous speaking gigs. 

All of this feels like a bloom. 

It could be that my younger self intuitively knew how my adulthood would progress. It could also be that I really did affirm this reality into existence. After thinking about it for almost a lifetime, I think it’s a little of both. 

Pay attention to what resonates. Find the affirmation that fits it like a glove. Say it over and over and over again. Say it every time it comes up. That’s the way you plow the field.  

Then let it go and watch to see what blooms. It might take a while, but it’ll be worth it. 

Be Your Own Guru

Sometime back in the early 2000s, I had that sentence flash through my brain – be your own guru. I thought it was deeply profound and a unique insight. It had arisen in my spirit in an organic fashion, and it seemed to spring from Source itself. Surely, I was a prophet. 

I briefly considered buying the domain name, writing a book, starting a movement, and being the guru that brought “be your own guru” to the people. Briefly. Very briefly.

Come to find out, a person named Betty Bethards wrote a book by that title way back in 1982 (a book I haven’t read, by the way, so this is not a plug, but it could be awesome for all I know). Then I found another book with the same title. And then several books with almost the same title — How to Be Your Own Guru, Be Your Own Change Guru, Find Your Inner Guru. It seems I wasn’t all that special.

Or, perhaps, we were evolving together and a bunch of us were getting the same message: It’s time to take ownership of our spiritual journey.

Evolutionary shifts are often messy, and the leap to being our own guru seems to have its own share of fits and starts. One of the byproducts seems to be some disenchantment with spiritual teachers. I’ve seen several instances lately of people turning away from gurus they once revered. And I’ve noticed that when people reject teachers I don’t resonate with, that is fine with me, but when they turn against those I respect, I feel an internal pushback. I want to parse the ways in which the teacher’s message must have been misunderstood. I want to bring the person back into harmony with the teacher. 

But when I move beyond that initial moment, I start to accept that everyone’s journey is valid, and their rejection of a teacher is what they need in this moment, and learning to listen to our intuition, learning to be our own guru, is often a herky-jerky affair.

On my journey to self-guided spirituality, I’ve learned to hold loosely to those I revere. We’re on this journey to begin with because we’re seeking answers, and when we find someone who seems to have them, we tend to clutch their teachings with a tight grip. We become a disciple, and we want to spread the gospel of our guru. But every single time I believe I’ve found a guru who has transcended this life and the ego completely, I’ve soon been given the opportunity to witness their humanness.  If I hold them loosely, though, I leave room for what rings true to wiggle into my spirit, and I stop wasting the energy of holding them hostage to my delusion of their perfection. 

If we don’t hold them loosely, then when we see their humanness, we tend to reject them, call them a false prophet, and even wage our own little smear campaign. We call them narcissists and money-grubbers. We sneer when someone mentions their name. Our newfound insight into “truth” might even cause us to judge someone else’s journey just because they are currently listening to that teacher. 

Please note, I’m not talking about the true charlatans. Those who have put on a spiritual disguise to collect wealth and power are their own special kind of repulsive. Preying on a person’s desire for spiritual growth is the lowest of all cons in my book. 

No, I’m simply talking about the many, the increasing many, who have had an insight and felt called to share it with the world. Some might even suggest that I am in that number, and in my very small way, I suppose I am. I’ve learned some important lessons on my journey, and for whatever reason, I feel so led to make them public. So, for those who are listening, and I’m glad that you are, I urge you to hold anything I say loosely. Let it roll around in your spirit. See how it feels. Take it for a test drive. If it feels like truth, you are welcome to it, free of charge. If it doesn’t, well, I’m only human.

Maybe I Know Too Much

Sometimes it feels like my brain is stuffed to the gills — if a brain had gills, of course. In my work, there are certain times of the year that feel like the seven seconds of a bull ride, except the seven seconds goes on for two weeks or even two months.  A life that not all that long ago felt quite manageable and even easy-going has suddenly morphed into a juggling act of meetings and deadlines and unavoidable tasks.  And here’s the kicker — not one of these responsibilities, taken by itself, is all that difficult. It’s the combination, the conglomeration, the complicated stew of stuff that becomes a little, well, crazy-making. 

When you were a kid, did you ever get a jar, poke holes in the lid, and then run around outside at dusk collecting fireflies — maybe you called them lightning bugs — and put them in the jar like a natural lantern or a neon entomology exhibit? Well, if you can remember what it looks like to have 25 bugs desperately searching for a way out with their emergency flashers on, then you have a sense of what my brain looks like during these bull-ride moments.  

And I know I’m not alone. Perhaps you, as well, face these times when it’s all you can do to stay barely ahead of the closest looming deadline. 

During these intense times, we shift from our heart to our head. It feels like a matter of survival. I stop listening to my intuition because I frankly don’t have time. My daily devotional is a to-do list. My meditation is the monotonous hum I enter into while grading paper after paper after paper. My prayer is the plea I give to students to get their work in on time.  And, truth be told, I know they have their own jar of fireflies to deal with. 

At this stage, I know what my calendar says I have to do, and I know what my to-do list says I have to do, and I know what my internal chore-minder says I have to do, and . . . well, I think I know too much right now. 

So, I’m going to take the only time I have, this moment here with you, to unknow some things. I’m going to steal this time, if you will be so gracious as to allow it, to set aside every deadline, and every item on that to-do list, and every piece of writing waiting to be created. For you see, even writing this was one of the fireflies bouncing on the walls of my spirit all week.  I pondered and struggled and tried oh so hard to think my way into a heart message. And it really can’t be done. 

When it comes to the life of the spirit, it is possible to know too much, to know so much that you become ineffective. From an overwhelmed brain we receive stress and frustration. This stress and frustration can lead to depression or anger or even illness. The antidote for an overwhelmed brain is an overflowing heart. 

Now, let’s be clear, I’m not anti-intellectual. The brain has skills we need, and I’m glad it knows things. But the brain is a tool, not the boss.  When it becomes the boss is when we have problems. In our busiest times, it’s easy for the brain to feel so indispensable that it thinks it’s the boss. And because our heart doesn’t blow its own horn as the brain does, it just sits there quietly waiting for us to remember it, waiting for us to realize that maybe we’re knowing too much and not feeling or being or loving enough. 

So for this moment, I’m going to trade my to-do list for beingness and my deadlines for awareness. I’m going to sit here in this moment, with you, and let my consciousness expand into awakening. I’m going to release my stress and frustration and for just this moment feel only love and peace and joy. I’m going to remove the lid of the jar and let my light shine freely into the world, sending that love, peace, and joy to anyone with a willingness to receive it. 

Do you feel it? 

Yeah. Me, too.  

Namaste.