flowers

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Bury the Bloom

Bury the bloom

Bloom

Exuberantly,

Extravagantly

Unashamedly.

Fill the air

With fragrance and colour,

Light and joy.

Catch the eyes

Of all who pass.

Stand proud,

Juicy-stemmed

Head held high

Filled with flowers.

Fade.

Wilt at the edges

Lose your freshness,

Wither and brown.

Droop.

Dry up

Drop petals

Shrivel.

Die.

Eyesore & dust-trap,

Wait to be thrown out,

Discarded.

Rot.

Not rot.

Buried deep, covered

In cold soil

And darkness.

Silence.

Moisture seeps,

Drips softly

Into the grave.

The corpse plumps,

Swells a little

Sends out snakes of root

White and thin and hairy,

Seeking nourishment,

Anchoring the body.

Wait.

Slow.

Slow.

Slow.

An itch begins,

An ache for light.

Stretch.

Strain,

Break the skin,

Breach the shell,

Reach, reach up.

Light

And cold.

Seek the light,

Grow upwards

Reach outwards.

Break.

Open.

Bloom.

Live.

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Why daffodils became the last straw ~ metaphors that strike to the heart

Why daffodils became the last straw ~ metaphors that strike to the heart

Say the word “daffodils” and any literate person will probably reply with “I wandered lonely as a cloud,” and any poor fool who grew up with Not The Nine O’ Clock News will probably put on a funny voice and say, “He does eat daffodils, you know.” My friend Kate will probably tell you of the time her clergyman grandfather ate a daffodil as a part of an Easter Day sermon. They’re generally not the sort of flowers to reduce someone to a flood of tears like rain from a blue sky. Genial, gleaming golden trumpets with a faint scent of spring sunshine and pollen, they herald the real arrival of spring with silent songs and waving yellow heads.

There are hundreds planted along the roadside on my route to work, massed brilliance of almost neon yellow, paler shades of lemon and deeper orange of the narcisssi varieties. They’re there for everyone who walks, cycles or drives past to enjoy for a few brief weeks each year.

Last Monday was my birthday. I’m not big on birthdays, I don’t like to make a fuss about them, so working that day was not a big deal. I decided to walk rather than cycle as I’d asked my husband to collect me from work in the evening so we could go and have a meal somewhere. The plan was a picnic on a beach somewhere, if the weather stayed fine enough.

I got a little under half way when I saw the daffodils. Rank upon rank of them, blooming in the sunshine. Then I saw the other ones. Someone had thoughtlessly picked a dozen or so, then thrown them down onto the path and left them, perhaps trampling them as they did so. I don’t know who picked them or who trampled them. It doesn’t matter, now. They were smushed into the path, withering where they had not been flattened.

I tripped in my stride and felt as if the world had suddenly become shadowed. I’d not been precisely cheerful that morning but not a lot different to usual. Tears prickled my eyes, then began to fall, uncontrollable and hot. Flowers have such a brief life, why did someone destroy those ones so wantonly? I sobbed as I walked, unable to understand why a handful of blowsy smashed-up  flowers had bypassed all my controls and hit me so hard. By the time I got to work, I had to come home again.

Now I’d finally spoken to my doctor about the insomnia and the depression and he’d given me some sleeping pills as an interim aide, and I’d been taking half a tablet cautiously every other night. Reading through the leaflet, one of the side effects is “unmasking of existing depression.” Bang on, that is. Unmasking. Yes, indeed. And I found I couldn’t put that mask back on this time.

Those daffodils were a powerful message, a metaphor from the world that flashed directly into my being. We’ve trashed a beautiful world without a thought for the fragile beauty and wonder therein. Oh you could say, it was just a few flowers and there are plenty more. You could say, well they’re bulbs, they’ll get another chance to bloom next Spring.

You could.

But those flowers were cut down and destroyed before they had a chance to finish their short blooming. Cut flowers in vases don’t bother me, because the time they bloom their beauty is being shared, seen and appreciated. Each flower matters, each bee, each bird, each bacteria, each living being, each rock, each bug that creeps you out, each one matters immensely because while there might be millions or even trillions like it, it is the only one in it’s existence.

Ascribing consciousness to inanimate things or creatures might sound mad, but surely recognising the right for things to have existence is better than wiping out things on a whim?

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Thaw #smallstone 13

 

Thaw #smallstone 13

 

It’s still not warm but the change is still startling. I can sit in an unheated house, without needing two jumpers and feeling my fingers become chilled. I walked in the garden without wishing I had put a coat on. The ambient indoor temperature is comfortable even without the heating on.

On windowsills, sprouting bulbs in pots lean towards the light, yearning for the touch of sun. The green shoots of snowdrops shine with vibrant life. Hyacinth flowers still unopened seem paused for breath, and on the dining room table, oblivious of outside conditions, my jasmine plant opens bloom after starry bloom and fills the room with waves of exotic scent, making me think of Mediterranean gardens on summer nights.

It may be a temporary thing, but it might be enough to get me through to Candle-mas and the start of springtime.

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Monday Meditation: Narcissus

 

Chapter Seven 

Seasonal Meditations: March 

Narcissus meditation 

Background

 The narcissus is a member of the daffodil family and has been bred to produce some spectacularly pretty spring flowers. The usual colours are shades of yellow, and cream, though others have been produced in other combinations. They usually bloom throughout the early spring and are often on sale in pots having been ‘forced’ to bloom a little earlier than they do naturally.

 

The scent of the narcissus is very sweet and almost hypnotic. It is available as an absolute, but is very expensive and aromatherapy books advise caution when using it as it is considered somewhat narcotic in effect and can be toxic.

The flower is named after a handsome youth in Greek myth who fell in love with his own reflection in a forest pool. Unable to reach the beautiful image, he pined away and died, and the flower sprang up where his body lay. The various different versions of the story all reflect a moral of avoiding self-obsession, though the details of both the events and the outcome change from one version to another. This meditation is aimed at promoting both understanding and love for the inner self.

To do the meditation I would suggest buying some ready prepared bulbs in advance and waiting till they are in full bloom. You may also like to buy them as cut flowers, but buying them as bulbs means that you may plant them later and have a reminder as the bulbs grow and spread and flower every year thereafter. If you are unable to obtain the flower, you may use the absolute, placing a single drop on a strip of blotting paper.

If you can manage it, performing this meditation outdoors on a sunny day enhances the effect; sitting by a sunny window works well too, with the pot or vase of narcissus flowers in front of you. Go through your usual preparations of grounding and relaxing; breathe the sweet, intoxicating aroma of the flowers, letting the petals brush your face. 

Meditation

 

Let the sweet scent fill your mind and feel the soft brush of the flowers against your skin.

The soft breeze touches your face and brings a fragrance of fresh leaves as well as that of the flowers. Sunlight dances through the newly opened leaves above you; each leaf is still soft and crumpled from the bud. You are in a grove of trees, widely spaced and the grass below them is finely grown and neatly trimmed as if this were parkland and not wild meadows.

Spring flowers grow here and there but the strongest scent of all is coming from a short distance away. You can see an ornamental pool, perfectly round and encircled by smooth stone, coated with a soft layer of the deepest moss. At the four points of the compass there is a stone urn, fixed securely to the stone surround of the pool, and each of these is filled with narcissi in fullest bloom. Today they are at their very best; you have come at the perfect moment to see them and smell them.

Go over to the pool and walk around it, clockwise. It’s a surprisingly large pool and it seems quite deep. A few deep green leaves from a water lily float on the dark surface of the water but it’s far too early for the flowers. The fragrance of the narcissi floats on the mild spring air and bird song begins. A single flower head floats on the water.

 

It’s very peaceful here and you sit down on the stone encircling the pool. The moss acts as a cushion, softening the stone for you. In the centre of the pool there is a statue that might well be a fountain, but the water is still today and the statue does not seem to cast a reflection. Then you notice that the water does not seem to be reflecting anything, not even the sky.

Lean out a little way and look into the water. What do you see in the water? Do you see yourself looking back? Do you like what you see? What would you change if you could? Let yourself have some time contemplating this.

A brisk wind rises and shakes the surface of the water and disperses the images you saw there, as if they were being wiped away by magic. You glimpse the bottom of the pool and maybe a goldfish or two before the breeze drops entirely and the surface of the water is completely still, and becomes mirror like. As you sit there, inhaling the sweet fragrance, let yourself gaze into the water. Who or what will appear there for you, now? I will let you spend as long as you need here.

*

You come back to yourself and see that the short spring day is drawing to a close, and the pool is now reflecting the sky as you would expect. The evening star has appeared, and shines as brightly in the water as in the sky and you know it is time to go back. As you look, the flowers seem to have faded already, past their best now though the scent is as sweet as ever.

As the daylight fades too and the evening sky turns to deep blue, walk back to where you started, leaving the lovely pool behind and when you are ready take a few deep breaths and open your eyes. You are now back.

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For Sandie, a poem

For Sandie, a poem.
 
Spring came in the back door;
Tendrils of green sweetness,
Damp earth and cut grass
Flowing in on a cool breeze.
I'd expected Winter still;
Braced for the blast
Of frosty, sterile air,
I stood and sniffed.
Few signs were there;
The trees stood naked,
Twigs bare and hard,
No swelling of their buds.
But I could smell Spring,
Hear her in the birdsong,
Feel her in the moving sky
Where pink and blue mingled
With rain-soaked grey.
Winter, go home now:
The battle is lost
And Spring is winning.
pict0257
I wrote the poem above for my friend Sandie, who lives in Detroit, and who finds winter as depressing as I do!!

 

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Potential…

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Doesn’t look like much, does it?

This is a meadow area in the woodland near my home, yesterday. The woods themselves are ancient woodland that has been managed probably since Norman times, but today is managed by a group of volunteers. They do a grand job of maintaining paths and so on, and raising local awareness of the resource we have here.

This meadow is currently sprinkled with a few clumps of snowdrops and a very few clumps of aconites. As the year goes on, different flowers appear. March and April it will be carpetted by daffodils and by summer time, the grass will be filled by four different kinds of wild orchids.

But you can’t see any of this yet. It’s too early and too cold. You’ll just have to take my word for it that they are there, waiting underground to grow and bloom.

How many things in us are still underground, waiting for the right season and the right conditions before they can bloom?