‘Tis true. We’re a thicket; we’re a tangle. We’re a heavy underground root projected deep in the earth. Dirt mixed in everywhere! Separate dirt and root at your own peril.
We’re made of one part earth, one part seed, one part water. We scamper for air. From our tangled underground world flecked with bits of stone, fat earthworms trenching our soil, mysterious caverns…our seed bursts open in greenery and we soar, soar, soar toward the light we’ve only glimpsed in underworld dreams.
Feel the strength of our underworld roots holding us steadfast. Feel the electric sap in our unfurling stems. Feel our flowered drumbeat as we meet blessed wind and bow to its omnipotence. Feel our mother rain as she opens the heart of her cloud for us. Just for us! Feel our father sun as he tells us hot jokes in the garden of our youth. See how they give everything we need to flower. Even when they withhold, they give. In their withholding, we remember our almost-forgotten tap-root and we sink deeper into that which drinks from a deeper well, in an ancient crumble of ground stone.
Feel the flower arising now; feel it! In color we bloom. In color we open our tightly closed seed and birth the gift the root only dreamed. In magnificent color we spread so wide the rain weeps and the sun cheers. Our petals give, give, give, ceaselessly and sometimes we sway in the mid-summer drought telling stories about dirt or the tangle or the dry soil or the damn butterflies which pinpricks leaves and the way honeybees spoil our good looks.
Instead, one fine morning we may wake up–don’t say we won’t–and realize we can’t separate the honeybees from yellow pollen any more. The tender nibble of moth-lips against petaled skin…why distinguish between moth from green waving leaf? The stories ferment like good wine…weren’t the stories so fun in the dappled nights of solstice? But now they drop away effortlessly, no longer needed. Spring and summer and autumn of you rise and fall.
A child leans down with chubby fist to peer into your beauty and suddenly picks you. You surrender to his fingers in an instant, knowing yourself suddenly as rootless, unbounded by any limits. You look at the garden of yourself–the tangle of you–and surrender softly to the vase. Without judgment no Judgment Day exists. The water fills your roots, feeding you, a baptism to the harvest.