I have loved orchids for much of my adult life. The fascination began after I moved out of my parents' home and started creating a place of my own, here in Chicago. Someone told me about Hausermann's Orchids in Villa Park, so I went. I remember walking into these enormous greenhouses filled with thousands of orchid plants and feeling completely overwhelmed by their beauty. They were elegant, strange, delicate, and architectural all at once, and I have been drawn to them ever since. My favorite is the white phalaenopsis with the yellow throat. Sometimes I choose one with spots or a little more variation, but I always return to the white. There is something about its simplicity that feels almost perfect: how does something so elaborate emerge from something so plain and simple?
What Lives Inside the Stem
There is something about the simplicity of an orchid that feels almost perfect: how does something so elaborate emerge from something so plain?
Before an orchid blooms, there isn’t much to look at. There are broad green leaves. There is a stem that seems to grow almost imperceptibly. Eventually, a few small buds appear. They are closed, quiet, and not especially dramatic. And yet, inside each one, an extraordinary flower is already taking shape. All of the angles are there. The white petals are there. The yellow throat is there. This little face of elegance that I imagine ---is already there. Everything exists before we are able to see it.
We tend to judge things by the stage they are in when we encounter them. We see the bare stem and assume nothing is happening. We see the unopened bud and become impatient. We look at something incomplete and wonder whether it will ever become what we hoped.
But the orchid knows that growth can be real ---long before it becomes visible.
The Promise of Change
The orchid reminds me of the seasons. In Chicago, winter can feel endless. The sky is gray. The branches are bare. Snow and ice cover everything that only months earlier was green. If you judged the world entirely by what you could see in February, you might believe that nothing would ever grow again.
But spring has been returning for longer than any of us can comprehend. The bare branch is not empty. The frozen ground is not finished. It contains the next season, even when there is no evidence of it on the surface. I find that reassuring and feel the same way when I watch an orchid stem slowly rise and begin to form buds. I know what’s coming, even if I don’t know exactly when. One bud may open this week. Another may wait until the next. The plant does not seem concerned with my schedule. It opens when it is ready.
Life often works that way, too. There are days when nothing seems to be moving. You may be waiting for an answer, an opportunity, a buyer, a seller, a new direction, a room to be furnished, the foundation of a home to get framed or simply some sign that the effort you are making will eventually lead somewhere. Then, without much warning, something changes. The call comes. The door opens. The idea becomes clear. What looked still was quietly developing all along.
Give It a Minute
I think many of us have become uncomfortable with waiting. We want the flower without the stem. We want the answer without the uncertainty. We want the room to feel complete on the day we move in. We want the business to arrive, the relationship to deepen, the problem to resolve, and the future to explain itself now. We want it as fast as a web page loads on to our computer screens.
The orchid offers another way. It doesn’t hurry, but it is not doing nothing. It is growing according to a rhythm that can’t be forced. The stem rises. The bud’s form. One opens, and then another. Each flower arrives when it is ready, and the waiting becomes part of the experience.
This is the lesson I keep receiving from the orchid: everything doesn’t have to be perfect in one moment or reveal itself at once. In other words, give it a minute. There may be more happening than I can see.
The Face That Finally Appears
When the first orchid bud opens, I always feel a small sense of wonder. The plain green stem suddenly holds this complex, expressive face. Something that seemed almost empty becomes full of form, color, and personality. And once the first flower appears, I know the others are coming with their beautiful gift.
The orchid doesn’t promise permanence, and I know the flowers will eventually fade. But the plant remains, and in time, it will begin again. This cycle feels honest. There are moments for blooming and moments for gathering strength. There are seasons when life is visible and abundant, and others when all the important work is happening quietly beneath the surface. But the promise is present, even if it is hidden. Like the bare branches of winter bring back the gift of green leaves, in spring. The gift is real and the promise is delivered. The beauty of faith.
Happily Ever Always™.
