I’ve lived with this plant—this soul—my entire life, seventeen years. Her seed first sprouted the day I was born. No one knew what she might become and only with careful cultivation would it become evident. Today, she reveals herself as the sensitive and intricate Mimosa Pudica. Her leaves fold inward and droop for protection when bothered or hurt. When content and emotion-filled, she is open and beautiful.
On April 13th, 2013, I awoke to the collapsing waves of the Gulf. Looking over the balcony, the perfection of the flawlessly bleached beach bathed by the infinite sea awed me, but something was missing. For the next ten days, this perfection was to be my home and shouldn’t I feel so lucky to be here? I then realized a part of me was missing, Mimosa Pudica.
On this night, after three dreadful days away from Mimosa, I could stand it no longer. My longing for her tugged me to the seaside in an attempt to substitute her comfort with the soothing sound of the waves by the moonlit ocean. I was just beginning to feel a hint of her security when the face of a Mexican man interrupted my meditation. As the moonlight highlighted his face, I recognized him as the resort’s beach monitor. In his broken English and demeaning manner he wondered “What you doing here, young white woman?” “Nothing,” I lied. His stern, dark face, wrinkled only with the stresses of a 23-year-old working as a beach boy, suggested we play a game. His job was to entertain, and as a thirteen year old I foresaw nothing more than a game of cards or ring toss. Eager to get my mind off of Mimosa, I agreed.
I focused only on matching my steps to his, one after the other, paying little attention to our destination. Only when he stopped did my concentration break. As I looked up, I realized we had walked a mile to a place where the moon no longer shined, the beach was no longer bleached perfection, and the waves seemed no longer peaceful, but bloodcurdling.
As he turned towards me, his glassy eyes reflected a little brown hut. He jolted his arm towards it and ordered, “that’s where we’ll play.” Frightened, I attempted an escape. As I tried to run, I felt the jerk of his hand gripping my shirt, shoving me to the ground.
Pain.
Confusion.
Shock.
After an hour of this agony, I escaped. Traveling back the path we had journeyed, I sensed for the first time Mimosa Pudica had folded her leaves inward and drooped.
With this nightmare in my past, I felt worthless, my future hopeless. On the plane home, I wondered how to say goodbye to Mimosa. As I silenced the rest of the world with my ear buds, familiar voices assured me, “never to suffer would never to have been blessed.” They reminded me I wouldn’t have to say goodbye to Mimosa because adversity is simply the water that feeds growth.
I decided I would not let this experience kill Mimosa, but rather enrich her soil. I learned to kill my resentment through love and empathy. As a result, Mimosa grew. I understood compassion as I recalled how that impoverished man lived. I felt motivated to help those like him whose suffering may instigate hate and violence. I realized that eliminating suffering might reduce violence like I had experienced, and thus I devoted my life to serving the impoverished. As a result, Mimosa blossomed. I accepted this experience as a blessing. Without it, I may not have found my passion for service or experienced Mimosa in full bloom. Each year since, I have continually nourished Mimosa’s soil with service trips and begun research on sustainable living for less-fortunate societies. Today, four years later, Mimosa Pudica has since doubled in size and continues to thrive.
