When I Am Pressed
by Emily Conrad
One of my favorite scents, floral or otherwise, is that of lavender. The plant itself isn't showy, but it is graceful with its gentle bends and muted colors. An admirer through and through, when we moved into this house, I took the risk of planting one, even though we're in a borderline area where it may or may not survive the cold of winter.
(A picture taken shortly after I planted it was in my post When Dreams Appear Little or Dying.)
When I was taking inventory of my plants this spring, the lavender appeared to be nothing but dead sticks. I left it alone, and a few weeks later, those dead sticks came to life with new growth. Now, I have a little, flourishing lavender plant, celebrating its second year with a crop of tiny flowers.
I thought that a plant so prized for its scent could be brought in and would let off its perfume as it hung to dry. I took a couple of sprigs, tied them with twine, and hung them from the knob of my medicine cabinet.
And then, nothing.
No pretty scent as I entered the room. No wafting lavender smell when I leaned close.
Nothing.
I rolled a couple of the leaves between my fingers, and there it was, a strong invitation to relax and savor, a scent as pampering as a pedicure, as luxurious as the velvet sleep mask I keep next to my bed.
That velvet eye mask actually has dried lavender inside it. If I scrunch it a bit before putting it on, I can fall asleep to the scent.
And so, I'm learning: whether fresh or dried, lavender doesn't release its fragrance until it's pressed.
Lavender and I have that in common.
How else can I explain why writing comes more easily when I'm pressed by hard situations?
When I look for God in those pressing situations, I find He is not only there; He's been preparing me to be there.
Read more »
One of my favorite scents, floral or otherwise, is that of lavender. The plant itself isn't showy, but it is graceful with its gentle bends and muted colors. An admirer through and through, when we moved into this house, I took the risk of planting one, even though we're in a borderline area where it may or may not survive the cold of winter.
(A picture taken shortly after I planted it was in my post When Dreams Appear Little or Dying.)
When I was taking inventory of my plants this spring, the lavender appeared to be nothing but dead sticks. I left it alone, and a few weeks later, those dead sticks came to life with new growth. Now, I have a little, flourishing lavender plant, celebrating its second year with a crop of tiny flowers.
I thought that a plant so prized for its scent could be brought in and would let off its perfume as it hung to dry. I took a couple of sprigs, tied them with twine, and hung them from the knob of my medicine cabinet.
And then, nothing.
No pretty scent as I entered the room. No wafting lavender smell when I leaned close.
Nothing.
I rolled a couple of the leaves between my fingers, and there it was, a strong invitation to relax and savor, a scent as pampering as a pedicure, as luxurious as the velvet sleep mask I keep next to my bed.
That velvet eye mask actually has dried lavender inside it. If I scrunch it a bit before putting it on, I can fall asleep to the scent.
And so, I'm learning: whether fresh or dried, lavender doesn't release its fragrance until it's pressed.
Lavender and I have that in common.
How else can I explain why writing comes more easily when I'm pressed by hard situations?
When I look for God in those pressing situations, I find He is not only there; He's been preparing me to be there.
Read more »
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