When Failure is an Option
So here’s a story from last week. My freshly harvested ranunculus, with their mesmerizing concentric petals, were tucked into my new makeshift flower cooler—an old freezer connected to a magical little Inkbird thermostat device that would keep the freezer from getting too cold and freezing the flowers. Flowers were magic. Machines were magic to do all this for me at such little cost. It seemed like a perfect ending to four months of tending these plants. Satisfied, I went to bed.
In the morning, I opened the freezer and saw carnage. The mesmerizing petals from yesterday were drooping and dull, hopelessly frozen. The stems were bent halfway over, frozen into the solid ice in the bucket. The little Inkbird thermostat, such a handy gadget, so magical that it could keep a free freezer warm enough to store flowers for me–-had failed. I had essentially put a bucket of my best ranunculus harvest into a freezer and they were ruined, completely useless. I had been tending these plants almost daily since March, my opening sales day was that weekend, and I was devastated.
The thoughts came immediately: “How could I be such an idiot? Of course I would fail at this. How could I have seriously just thrown these precious plants in without checking the equipment? Machines aren’t magical–they require understanding and testing, and I’m too much of an artsy fartsy type to ever learn how to manage machines.”
“I had failed. And I was the problem.”
After allowing myself a 5 minute cry, (I highly suggest this for parents or anyone who needs to quickly process something sad so they don’t lash out at others all day) I fed my kids breakfast and soberly went through the morning.
I’ve had more time to stew on this event and there are so many lessons here.
First: failing at something doesn’t make ME a failure. Shame and despair are well traveled paths in my brain, and those emotions come quickly. But “I am a failure; I’ll never be able to do this” is not a useful thought. Neither is blaming others or the equipment. Thinking that way doesn’t leave any room for change.
“I had failed. And I was the problem.”
Without the lies of shame beneath it, that thought actually does leave room for change. As the character of Aaron Burr sings in my favorite song from Hamilton, “I am the one thing in life I can control.” If I am NOT an inherent failure but an adaptable person capable of learning, I can use mistakes to change, to get better. Often, it is the only way.
Yes I made a mistake–a costly one. I should have tested my equipment rather than assuming that magical machines will take care of my needs without my understanding how. I could have read the manual or have been patient enough to check it with someone more knowledgeable, before I risked my most expensive product. But because I was the one who made the mistake, I am equally empowered to make changes. I’ll never forget again.
As sad as it was to throw those ruined blooms to my chickens, they did serve a purpose. They were grown for months with so much care, and rather than having their final destination be brightening someone’s home, their purpose will last even longer. Those flowers taught me to slow down, to test and understand equipment before trusting it, and to value my product enough to be patient with this process.
Most of all, they taught me that as long as I am not a failure, failure is an option.
When we have the humility to raise our thoughts out of the muck of self-loathing (yes, despair is pride turned inside out), we can have the strength to “look where you slipped, not where you fell.” Knowing where you slipped is a lesson that lasts forever, because it came at a cost.
So if you need to hear that you are not a failure, hear it. Believe it. Have a little cry, and go look where you slipped. The only thing you can control is you. And you are capable of catching yourself next time. I know we both are.
Your flower farmer,
Meredith
