I’ve been staring at my bamboo plant in my office because I know that I need to repot it; it’s too big for its current pot. It wasn’t always. It started as a small plant in a small pot, but I knew that it needed more room in order to continue to grow.

Several months ago, I went to the store and purchased a new pot and soil. I lovingly transferred the bamboo to the new pot and watered it weekly. After about 3 weeks, I noticed new shoots growing out of the soil — I didn’t expect those; I just assumed that my plant would continue to grow upward as it had been.

Now, my bamboo plant is tall and has so many new shoots, its leaves are wilting because its current environment is no longer conducive to its growth and health.

I’ve written before about the process of transformational growth (See “Personal Transformation Has a Cost: Are You Willing To Pay?,” May 6, 2012):

From the time we are born we are changing or transforming. We don’t often think about transformation in that way, we simply see it as part of a natural process. What made me think about this is the fact that I have had to transform in order to achieve the things that were important to me — e.g., good grades, college education, job, promotion, etc.– or to pursue more personal things like a happy marriage, peace of mind, a spiritual connection with God, passion and purpose.

Each pursuit required a change in my thinking and behavior, which ultimately changed who I was and how I identified me to myself and to others. I’ve come to understand my transformational process as similar to something that happens in nature… For example, when a snake matures (stay with me!), it must shed its outer skin in order to grow. It’s called molting. If it does not shed its skin, it dies — it smothers in its old skin. I believe we humans are often prone to the same thing because we choose not to change our “skin,” meaning our thinking in order to pursue something new and different, especially when we know that our old skin no longer fits us.

I realize that I didn’t go far enough in my explanation because I talked about the internal environment (i.e., thoughts, attitudes, behaviors, etc.) that must change in order to become a better you, but I neglected the external environment that is equally important to one’s growth.

This includes simple questions like, “With whom do I choose to spend time — do they help or hinder my progress toward my better self?” “What places do I choose to inhabit — do they energize me or do I feel drained when I’m there?” “What am I spending my free time doing — am I learning or doing anything that helps others or myself?” These are all important “pot” issues because they determine if your environment is nurturing or restricting your growth.

Like my bamboo plant, I wonder what new shoots are lying dormant within me because I’ve allowed my growth to be contingent upon the size of my current pot — my environment— rather than the size of my dreams, goals and aspirations. But, as many of us know, changing environments means that you have to leave the old one and venture out into a new often unknown environment, and that’s scary, especially when you don’t know what the new will bring.

Ultimately, your new growth will require an investment in a new pot/environment. This may take the form of going back to school for additional training, leaving an unfulfilling job, seeking counseling to change habitual self-defeating thought patterns, saying goodbye to relationships that constantly take more than they contribute, choosing to break “enabling” behavior patterns that keep you guilt ridden and tied to a past and people you no longer want in your life, and attending events that have your future in mind even though your present self-talk says you’re not worthy to participate.

I know that I have to invest in a new pot for my plant; it’s well past the time to do so if I want it to continue to grow.

So, how about you: have you made the decision to invest in a new “pot” for yourself? I certainly hope so because, like a potbound plant, your “roots” — dreams, goals and aspirations — may die because they have no outlet to spread beyond their current confines.

The Harlem Renaissance Poet Langston Hughes in his poem Harlem, said it this way:

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore—
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over—
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

Happy planting!